


POTC: How Many Miles to Babylon?

by ShahbanouScheherazade



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Angst and Romance, Curses, Drama, Dreams, F/M, Gen, Pirates, Pre-Curse of the Black Pearl, Supernatural Elements, Treasure Hunting, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-01-06 15:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 49,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShahbanouScheherazade/pseuds/ShahbanouScheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>COMPLETE -- For ten years after stealing the cursed gold, Barbossa searched for the medallions and the blood that would free him, and dreamed of a girl he had almost killed. Could death and defeat become victory? Could love ever grow in such a cold heart? Parallels Ch. 7-10, Barbossa & the King's Messenger. Kind of a darker look at the cursed years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dies Irae

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean.
> 
> A/N: This story is part of the King's Messenger series, and runs parallel to the time covered in Chapters 7 through 10 of Barbossa and the King's Messenger, which is complete and also posted here as a series.
> 
> To My Readers: Thank you so much for your kudos and comments. It means a lot to me when I hear your feedback, and I wanted to let you know how much I appreciate your support!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding the Chest of Cortes seemed a great victory, but what happened after that would bring even a great pirate captain to his knees, and mark the beginning of ten years of hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Pirates of the Caribbean.

_How many miles to_ _Babylon_ _?_ _Three score miles and ten.  
_ _Can I get there by candle light?_ _Yes, and back again._

 

 **  
Chapter 1:** **Dies Irae**

 

What had he done that was so wrong?

Mutiny? Mutinies happened all the time; they were part of life on the high seas. Theft? Theft was his business, he thought angrily, his livelihood – theft, and all that went with it! _Take what ye can, and give nothing back_ : the rule of sailor and plunderer, both.

Yet, even as he raged against his fate, Barbossa knew the answer. Alone in the captain’s quarters, his sharp mind forced him to confront one immutable truth after another: he was not innocent; he had transgressed. He had taken something that was under supernatural protection. _You do not steal from the_ _heathen_ _gods._ How many myths and legends make that point? Yet, he had dared it, and now the consequences were unfolding before his eyes; unstoppable, inexorable.

He was damned – damned for all eternity. That was how these vengeful gods treated thieves. And he had no one to blame but himself.

He stared at the little square of moonlight on the chart table. He had only to extend his hand into that unholy light to see once more the rotten bones with shreds of flesh and nail clinging to them. Keeping his arm folded protectively against his chest, he studied the knuckles of his enfleshed hand, and clenched his fist. He could still feel the first wave of helplessness and horror that had swept over him in that instant when he had learned what despair felt like – _true_ despair, total loss of hope. Blackness.

Using one hand, he pulled a chair away from the table and into the shadows, carefully averting his eyes as he did so, and slowly eased himself into its seat. He must think. If he refused to give way to despair, he might still win: so long as he could use his wits, he was still in the game.

The punishment had been swift and sure: first came the wakefulness, no matter how fatigued they were. They had put this down to their anticipation of the spree awaiting them in Tortuga. But no sooner had they made port in that brigand's paradise, than the truth became undeniable: not a man among them could taste the rich food they could now afford, or feel the effects of the rum that they consumed like water. No perfume could they smell, nor tempting flesh could they feel, no matter how they tried. Starving, thirsty, and aching for the touch of a lover, they were sad, bewildered dogs, all of them.

But Barbossa had been first to discover the worst effect, the final prison: his own body. He had reached towards a seductive, regal looking strumpet who stood laughing outside the Faithful Bride, just as a thin ray of moonlight punched a tiny hole in the overcast night sky, and illuminated his outstretched hand.

He had drawn it back in an instant, quickly enough to insult the sensibilities of the haughty wench. She turned away from him in a show of distain, but he was hardly aware of her departure. Heart pounding, he had already turned his face to the wall and, thus shielded from prying eyes, was examining his hand closely. What sort of delusion could have made him see a skeleton's bones in place of his own elegant hand? He could see nothing out of the ordinary, but fear gripped him like an iron collar; this was no drunkard’s dream, for he was stone cold sober. It was then that he recalled the moon striking his outstretched hand as it had mouldered before his very eyes.

He edged towards a patch of moonlight where he would not be observed, and slowly extended his hand. The moment the moonlight fell upon it, his flesh rotted away and his ring hung loosely on the bone of his finger.

Only the bravest of men would have done what Barbossa did next. Keeping an eye out for bystanders, he moved his arm a bit further into the pale light. Instead of his forearm, more bones appeared, more shreds of rotting flesh; and the fine lace that hung from his sleeve turned to ragged, dirty tatters, like remnants of cerecloth from some corpse that had lain many years in a neglected grave.

In a state of wordless shock, he slipped away from the noisy crowd and down to the quay. Mercifully, the clouds were once again obscuring the moon; but he would not trust in that celestial veil for protection. He drew up his arms so that the sleeves of his coat covered his hands, and he kept his face lowered until the shore boat reached the _Pearl_. Once aboard, he strode quickly to his quarters, snarling an order to the watch that he was on no account to be disturbed.

And so no man saw him in that apocalyptic moment when he stood in his moonlit sleeping quarters and looked full in the glass that hung there. A monster looked out at him – a monster with a crumbling face, from which his own eyes stared back. He had cried out in sheer terror at his true state, and felt his bowels and bladder loosen. Helpless, despairing, he had collapsed and fallen to his knees, his mind reeling with horror.

His life was in ruins, destroyed by a divine power he had disastrously misjudged and could not hope to challenge. This power had decreed that he would be trapped forever in a hideous travesty of his own body, with no sense of taste or feeling. At the very moment when riches and physical pleasures of every variety seemed to dance at his fingertips, he found them forever beyond his reach. But the fatal blow had fallen on his pride; his face, his body, were gone. His mind and soul inhabited nothing more than a rotting corpse.  What woman would not run screaming at the very sight of him?

 _So this be the way Hector Barbossa's story ends,_ he thought in a moment of bitter clarity. _Better to die, and quickly._

Drawing his pistol, he aimed at his own chest. He squeezed the trigger, and heard the shot fire. And then? Nothing. He waited; then he pulled his shirt open and looked at the gaping wound in his chest. The shot had been good, but the wound began to close as he watched it. No, there would be no blessed release through the door of death, not for him.

Full realisation dawned on him at last: he was doomed to these horrors until the end of time. Utterly undone, he leaned against the bulkhead, weeping with great, dry, gulping breaths. He had the courage to die, but not to live on in this cursed state.

His tears flowed as they had not done since the day his father abandoned them for a young village woman; but that was a lifetime ago. And yet he sobbed as if he were a child again, grieving over his lost good looks, his ragged clothes, and the wreck of his future days, until his exhausted body could no longer continue.

In the silence that ensued, he began fearfully to consider what he should do. It was essential that he pull himself together; firstly, to restore his own shattered self-respect, but even more, for the sake of his crew, who must never know he had abandoned hope, even for a moment. He brushed the front of his breeches with his hand, felt no dampness, and remembered that he had no sense of touch. Glancing down, he was surprised to find his clothes dry. Looking further and finding no evidence of his deepest shame, he had a sudden realisation that all bodily functions must have departed. Even his eyes were dry.

At this, a grim merriment descended on him. _Naturally,_ he reasoned. _Skeletons shed no tears_. He even laughed as he laid a shaking hand on his berth and pulled himself to his feet. At least it was one small victory; one throw of the dice that favoured him.

And then, as it had oftentimes before in his life, anger rescued him from pain and sorrow. _By what_ _right did the gods break a man like that?_ The thought filled him with a righteous fury. Aye, guilty he might be, but he was being punished unjustly, disproportionate to his crimes. He would fight back and he would win; somehow the curse could be lifted.

He racked his brain to remember everything he knew about the Aztec curse. There was something about returning the medallions to the chest. If the gold could not be spent, if the theft itself brought down the curse, then it stood to reason that the return of the treasure would be required.

A growing chorus of panicked voices from the deck interrupted these ruminations: his men were beginning to return from shore. They would need him. This was the moment he must  rally them —giving them hope, and exhorting them to have faith in him as the man who would lead them out of their Gehenna.

He rose to his feet and, with a strength and vigour that surprised even himself, strode out on deck to take command of his crew. Their terrified eyes followed his progress as he marched up the steps to the quarterdeck.

He faced them with his head held high, and raised his arms for silence.

"Gents," he began, with the confident, swaggering tone they knew so well. "It appears that we find ourselves under a spell that would destroy most men -- but you are not 'most men'. You are the crew of the mighty _Black Pearl_. I know all of ye - know ye like I know every nail and timber of this ship! And I tell you, we brethren will break this curse -- and live to pass the story down to our children's children! Are ye with me?"

As the crew roared their approval, he called out his orders: "Then go back to Tortuga, gents! Find the gold ye spent there! And when we return the cursed medallions to the chest, we'll be livin' men once more!"

He watched them scramble into the boats, hoping against hope that his words would prove true. He must show conviction: if the crew sensed that he doubted the outcome, what would keep them from dooming themselves? They would go mad, some of them, and the ship's company would be scattered. He had to hold them together until they could overcome the curse. They would need to search farther than Tortuga to recover the gold they had so carelessly scattered. _How much of it would they need to put back?_ he wondered, as he returned to his quarters.

The inhabitants of Tortuga would recount stories of that night for many years, but the following day saw a measure of calm determination return to the crew of the _Pearl_ , as they lined up to surrender the medallions to Barbossa’s keeping. Each man stepped forward in turn, and placed the gold on their captain’s table, as he recorded it in the ship’s log. Afterward, Barbossa stood at the table, leaning forward with his hands braced on either side of the book as he scrutinised the figures. The final tally was woefully inadequate; only two hundred medallions had been recovered.

He lifted his head as his ears picked up the sound of a scuffle outside his door. A moment later, the door banged open and Bootstrap Bill Turner was shoved into the room by Master Twigg and Koehler. Bootstrap looked frightened, but his expression was set in a way that suggested a certain dogged obstinacy. The other two men scowled like Furies.

“Well, Turner,” Barbossa asked slowly. “What d’ye have for me?” He tightened his mouth and fixed Bootstrap with a keen stare.

“Tell ‘im,” hissed Twigg, giving Bootstrap’s arm a sudden wrench. “Tell ‘im what ye did when ye went back to Tortuga. Ye were quick enough to tell the rest of us.”

Bootstrap looked at each man in turn, and at last seemed to resign himself to his fate. His straightened his shoulders and looked Barbossa in the eye. “I want no part of this,” he said.  “I never did, only I spoke not a word when you sent Captain Sparrow to his death. I let you kill ‘im, an’ that makes me the same as you – a mutineer and a murderer.” He shook himself free of Twigg’s hold, and cleared his throat.

 _By the powers, old Bootstrap’s about to take a stand,_ thought Barbossa, widening his eyes. _Does he still know so little of me?_

“We broke the Code – all of us,” Bootstrap declared. “And we deserve to be cursed – that’s divine justice, that is. But you mean to give back the gold and get off with no punishment. So you’ll be a cheat, as well as a mutineer and a murderer.” He met Barbossa’s glowering look with something like pride. “Well, you’ll get no gold from me. I’ve sent one medallion where you’ll never get at it. We damn well ought to be cursed forever, and I’ve seen to it that we will be!”

“Is that so, Bootstrap?” asked Barbossa, in the same slow, polite tone. He lifted his hands from the table and rose to his full height, forcing the shorter Bootstrap to look up at him.

“And where would the likes of you think to send it?” he added with a smile, as he saw Bootstrap begin to realise his mistake. _Self-righteous bastard,_ he thought. _I’ll serve you for this._

“Now, I be thinking,” he suggested, “that ye should have talked less about yer family if ye meant to play this game with me.” He paused, staring down at Bootstrap. Then he rapped out his next words sharply, “Wife-and-a-brat – am I right?”

“You’ll never find ‘em,” Bootstrap insisted, but he was beginning to tremble. “For the love of God, Barbossa --“ he begged, but the captain cut him off briskly.

 “Aye, now, y’ see that’s just what I find m’self short of, at the moment,” Barbossa replied, staring at him coldly.

Then he raised his voice to its full strength as his temper exploded. “Preach t’ me, will ye?” he roared. “Doom us all by yer own hand? Devil rot yer guts, ye maggot!” Bootstrap cowered and raised his arms as if expecting Barbossa to strike him in the face.

Barbossa looked past the frightened man, and shouted, “Master Twigg! Take this Judas-dog topside, loose one of the six-pounders, and tie ‘im on – by ‘is bootstraps,” he added, grinning with sudden inspiration.

As the two pirates dragged Bootstrap out of the room, Barbossa called Koehler back to give orders for the rigging of a hoist to lift the cannon. “Use the main halyard and make it fast to the capstan,” he said.

Koehler hesitated. “Will it hold?” he asked.

“Long enough,” Barbossa replied.

Koehler grinned. “Aye, captain,” he answered with a nod, and departed with all speed to execute Barbossa’s orders.

Twenty minutes later, Koehler reported that all was ready. Barbossa stepped onto the deck and inspected the cannon, as it dangled high in the air with the terrified Bootstrap hanging head down below it. “Brace her sharp up to port,” Barbossa snapped, and the yard was hauled slowly around until the cannon and the unfortunate Bootstrap hung over the sea.

“How d’ye fancy the view, Turner?” Barbossa called out. “D’ye care to tell us where ye sent the medallion, or shall I send ye to the locker? This be the last time ye’ll hear me ask ye.”

Bootstrap grimaced pitifully, shaking his head from side to side. Barbossa reacted swiftly. “Then by the powers, I’ll send ye to the bottom meself!” he thundered.

Seizing a hatchet from Koehler, he moved quickly towards the capstan, and brought the hatchet down with all his strength, severing the halyard that held the cannon aloft, in a single blow.

The halyard snapped free with a deadly recoil, as Barbossa and the crew jumped out of its way. In an instant, the cannon plummeted into the ocean, taking Bootstrap with it. On the deck of the _Pearl,_ there was no sound, save for the creak of the wooden vessel and the soft flapping of her sails.

Rousing himself from his own thoughts, Barbossa cast a quick eye over the mute assembly of men and snarled, “What are ye doin’? Sayin’ yer prayers? _Back t’ work, ye lice!_ ” He let the hatchet fall from his hand, and the men silently drew out of the way as he returned to his quarters.

Once alone, he considered what plan would best serve his purpose. _Where had Bootstrap said his family lived?_ he thought. _Ramsgate? No; Rotherhithe. Then to Rotherhithe we’ll go. But perhaps it would be well to make sure of our venture._

He reflected on the best way to discover the means of removing the curse; then his face brightened. There was one who would know, one with whom he had made an accord; and now that accord had been broken. As he reckoned it, she was now his debtor, having falsely promised to protect him from death – and what was he now, if not dead?

He made his way to his sleeping quarters, intent on changing the rags he wore for better clothes; but when he threw off his coat and vest and unfastened his breeches, the grotesque sight of his rotting remains shook him to the core. _Carrion,_ he thought with revulsion, as he quickly fastened his clothes and dressed himself once more in his tattered coat. He would not attempt to change his clothes again.

Solemnly, he went to his chart table and unrolled a map. He smoothed its edges, putting weights on each corner to hold it down. Then he began to plot a course for Cuba and the Pantano.


	2. The Supplicant and the Priestess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbossa visits Tia Dalma to bargain for information, but there is another matter -- a question and a favour -- he hopes to present to the capricious goddess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean.

Hector Barbossa opened his eyes as the early morning light began to filter into the great cabin. Not that he ever slept; that healing comfort, like all others, had become a thing of the past. Nevertheless, in the evenings, when weariness lay heavy on him, he persisted in attempting to sleep and, more importantly, to dream.

He reached for the hairpin he carried in his coat pocket, and fingered it thoughtfully, recalling the girl whose hair it had adorned. Caged in her cabin, she had picked the lock with insulting ease and vanished from the ship whilst he and the other mutineers were busy forcing Sparrow into the sea. He sighed. Drowned, that was his opinion. She looked too slight to be a swimmer. _T’would be as likely she could sprout wings_ , he concluded dismissively. But then, he reminded himself, who would have reckoned she could pick the lock?

Alive or dead, she still haunted him. During the watches of the night, as he lay on his bed with eyes closed but mind awake, he would will himself to fall asleep and see her in a dream, even though he knew the futility of it. Of course, in the sort of dreams he wished for, there would be no awkward, inconvenient circumstances to overcome. 

To start with, she would not be the daughter of a man he wished to kill. She would not be attached to Sparrow; in fact, she would treat Sparrow contemptuously and reject his advances. 

She would be alive, Barbossa mused, and would belong to him alone. She would be wealthy and titled – perhaps a duchess – but he would have won her affections completely; she would admire everything about him, and to pleasure him, she would venture anything he asked. 

He shifted his weight, discontented. This should be the point where his dreams intersected with his desires; but sleep and dreams eluded him, nor could he even remember certain sensations clearly. Not that his craving for carnal pleasures had departed; indeed, at times he thought it would take twenty women to sate his heated longings. But for now, all of his appetites were doomed to torment him until the curse could be lifted.

With eyes half-closed, he sat staring at the chart table, his thoughts returning once more to the dead girl _. Nina Bitter_ , he mused. _Friend o’ Jack Sparrow. Where did ye go?_ He judged her to be as hot-blooded as himself, recalling how her eyes had shone as she joined the _Pearl’s_ crew in fighting off some other ship of miscreants just one day before the mutiny. Not the best fighter, but bold as a tigress protecting her cubs.

He smiled at this notion, then he pictured the little tigress in another setting, not with her usual placid expression, but fiery-eyed with lust and adoration for him. In their heated but amorous wrestling, she would wrap her arms around him and rake his back with her fingers as she pressed herself hard against him, and he would know exactly how to direct her passions. He would give her kisses she would never forget, Barbossa thought, as his breathing grew heavy. And then . . .

“Let go the anchor!” came Bo’sun’s order from the deck, bringing Barbossa’s thoughts back from his reverie with a jolt.

The shouted command told him that they had reached the mouth of the Pantano, and were anchoring just offshore. The hour was at hand for him to confront a certain petite, dreadlocked lady and have answers from her. He looked at his hand and was surprised to find it gripping the hairpin tightly. He slipped the small memento back into his pocket, and made ready to negotiate with Tia Dalma.

Not far from the bay where the _Pearl_ was anchored, the great cypress trees of the Pantano cast deep shadows across an eccentric little house in their midst. Even on the brightest days, the light was dim and indistinct, necessitating the constant use of candles in the parlour where Tia Dalma sat. She herself had no need of the flickering little lights, but her visitors did, and she was expecting one of them to call on her.

She sat with eyes closed, seeing the _Pearl_ at anchor. _Him nyah need a boat now,_ she thought. _Water be de same as air to de undead._ And indeed she sensed her guest as he approached on foot, walking beneath the clear waters of the bay, then following the Pantano river, and finally striding through the brackish waters of the swamp. She did not need the sound of his boots on the small dock to know he was just outside.

Tia Dalma opened her eyes as he fumbled with the door for a moment, and smiled to herself as he stepped into her parlour. _Captain Barbossa, at last. Me knew yuh would have questions._

Her visitor would have seemed calm and composed to mortal eyes, but her preternatural sight perceived a black aura of anger and desperation that filled the air around him. Rather than greeting him, she waited in silence for his first words, knowing well what they would be.

“We had an accord.” His voice was low and dangerous, barely under control.

“We _have_ an accord,” she corrected him serenely. “Nothin’ change dat.” 

“Then how be it that I find m’self cursed and dead?” Barbossa enquired in a smooth voice, though the glint in his eyes was far from pleasant.

She grinned. “Yuh still a fine-lookin’ mon, Hector. Even when yuh cursed. But though yuh be not among de livin’, yuh not dead either. I t’ink yuh know dat already. Dere be somet’in else on yuh mind.”

“Tell me how to break the curse!” he exclaimed impatiently.

“An' what yuh gimme in exchange?” She laughed and waved him to a chair, but he remained standing. She turned on her heel with a small toss of her dreadlocks, and walked away from him, swinging her hips  with an air of indifference. “We mek an accord dat I gwan save yuh from death, an’ yuh gwan see dat de Brethren Court unbind me.” She looked back at him and narrowed her eyes. “Don’t say nothin’ ‘bout cursed gold.”

“By the powers, ye be right,” said Barbossa, pretending surprise, as if he had not thoroughly considered this point when working out his strategy for these negotiations. 

With a sly look at her, he added, “And I suppose there be some Pirate Lords who might answer me when I summon the Brethren, though I be naught but a skeleton.” 

He stopped for a moment, then took a sharp breath and added, “But many others there be who would say Hector Barbossa has no right to convene the Court – that since he’s no longer among the livin’,  it be proper to name another Pirate Lord of the Caspian Sea – one who respects the verdict of the First Court, an’ seeks not to release . . . _Calypso_.” As he spoke her name, the flames of the candles shimmered for a moment.

He had hoped that this argument might move her to intervene in his plight, but he was disappointed. Tia Dalma faced him with an imperious wave of her hand. “Yuh t’ink me nah kyan wait for anodder time, if yuh fail me? Anodder age of men? Do yuh know how long me been bound in me bones?” 

Staring him down with a grim smile, she added, “Don’ forget who I am, _mortal_. A t’ousand years mean nothin’ to me.” 

Barbossa humbled himself at once, making a low bow. “Far be it from me t’ presume on yer good will, milady. Apologies if it seemed so. I be ever yer servant, faithful to me vow.” As he spoke, it occurred to him that in his present state, time meant as little to him as it did to Tia Dalma. If Cortez’ curse proved as difficult to remove as the spell that bound Calypso, he might spend numberless years trapped in his present hellish condition. The very thought was almost enough to overthrow all his courage.

But Tia Dalma had glimpsed his desperation, and her mood turned gentle and sympathetic, like the soothing calm of the ocean after a squall. "Ah, me dear, troubled mon," she said sweetly, combing his hair back with her fingers. “How me hate to see yuh suffer. If it ease yuh heart, I gwan tell yuh how to break de curse.”

She stared into his eyes with tender concern, and a feeling of peace enfolded him, conquering his fears and quieting his heart. She had decided to help. Her unpredictable nature had inclined towards him at just the right moment, for which he was thankful and relieved. "I be ever in your debt, madam," he murmured.

"Firs’, de gold must be return," she said, still smoothing his hair, “Yuh must bring back every piece – eight hundred eighty-two, I t'ink?" She guided him to a chair, encouraging him to sit down by pressing lightly on his shoulder. "But de gold gwan help yuh find it - w'en yuh get close, it gwan call out to yuh."

She paused. Barbossa nodded, but something in her expression made him hesitate. "So yer sayin' I need only return what I took, and that be all it takes to break the curse?"

Tia Dalma's mouth curved into a sweet smile. "Ah, yuh know me so well, dearest," she answered with a little wave of her hand. "Nah, dat not be all. All dem who stole de treasure must pay wit' dere blood."

Barbossa seized her wrist, pulling her hand away from his face, and stared at her in disbelief. "Are ye tellin' me that we all need t' die? What purpose be there in breakin' a curse if yer life be forfeit?" he asked, raising his voice.

"Yuh only spill ickle bit -- a few drops -- onto de gold," she answered, gently freeing her wrist. “But de blood must be repaid byevery wan of dem. De fate of wan is de fate of all. Until den, yuh all cursed . . .” She hesitated, glancing down at the parlour table, and casually adjusted a crab shell with the tip of her finger.

"A few drops of blood be a small price . . ." he started to mutter, then stopped. “An’ by what means d’ ye suggest I get blood from skeletons?”

Tia Dalma glanced about at the jumble in her parlour. Her eyes caught sight of the object she sought, and she took a small dagger from one of the shelves and presented it to Barbossa. “Each mon gwan step up to de chest holdin’ dis knife. Den him say: _Receive me blood, I humbly entreat_. Den dey cut dere hand an’ spill ickle bit into de chest.”

_No difficulty there,_ Barbossa thought. He would not even need to persuade the crew. They would leap at the chance to remove the curse. He noticed that Tia Dalma was watching him out of the corner of her eye, but he couldn’t make out her purpose. 

Then he remembered Bootstrap.  

His was on the verge of mentioning Bootstrap’s fate when a happy thought occurred to him: he had marked the _Pearl’s_ position on that day. They would return and conduct an underwater search – child’s play since they no longer needed air. Whether Bootstrap was contrite or not, they would seize him and bring him along. His blood would mingle with theirs, and the curse would be broken. 

And yet, he was made uneasy by Tia Dalma’s surreptitious looks. A cautious man, he thought a moment and then decided how to phrase the question she was clearly anticipating.

“Suppose we should find ourselves in need of blood from one no longer in our company?” he asked cagily.  

She shrugged, but her grin told him that she had understood his situation perfectly. “Den yuh find anodder – him chile, whose veins carry him blood.”

Barbossa nodded and continued to observe her manner with some concentration. At last, judging her to be in a propitious mood, he resolved to try her on another matter that weighed on his mind, however awkward it might be. He cleared his throat.

"Be she dead?" he brought out, after a few moments’ pause.

Amused at him, Tia Dalma lifted her eyebrows. "Many be dead," she answered. "Who yuh speakin' of?"

"I think ye know," he replied, the corners of his mouth curling into a sarcastic smile.

"Oh!" she exclaimed in mock surprise. "Yuh mean she whose hairpin yuh carry wit' yuh!"

"Aye," he admitted, feeling somewhat embarrassed. "Does she live? Or is it her ghost I'll be seein’ in the other world some day?"

Tia Dalma shrugged. “What do yuh t’ink happened to Witty Jack? Same story for ‘ur.” 

As she answered him, Barbossa noticed something oddly familiar hanging beside Tia Dalma's loom; it might have made his heart leap, except that his heart no longer beat at all. His eyes rested upon a heavy braid of fine hair, bound up and hung from the frame among the skeins of silk and wool.

Ignoring Tia Dalma’s blatant allusion to the mutiny, he walked to the loom and touched the braid. He was certain he recognized it, but there was no sense of feeling in his fingers. He withdrew the hairpin from his pocket and used it to touch the braid of hair. 

"The same owner, devil strike me if I lie," he said, turning to face Tia Dalma. "Alive, or dead?"

"I don' see how dat concern yuh," she said simply. Her manner was cooling once more, as rapidly as a sun-warmed sea when the sky above suddenly clouds over. He knew that he must not delay, if he expected her to grant the favour he intended to ask.

"Well, now," he smiled, coaxing her. "I seem to recall that even Davy Jones saw his lady from time to time. I'm only lookin' for a similar arrangement." Taking a step toward her, he added, "T'is a hard thing to condemn a man to an eternity with no food, drink, sleep, or . . . companionship." He paused uncertainly, trying to read her mood.

"Dat is why it be a curse," she replied. “And I t’ink yuh know she nah wanted t’ be yuh lady,” she added with a wry smile. Still, either she sensed his hidden misery, or perhaps his reference to Davy Jones had struck some mysterious chord of sympathy within her, for she did not utterly refuse him. 

"De curse nah kyan be disturb, me dear,” she said. “But I gwan send yuh sleep, perhaps wan night each year, and den yuh dream whatever yuh choose. But dat will only make de rest of de time worse for yuh, poor mon."

"I care not,” Barbossa replied quickly. “What more can be done t' me? Let me sleep even one night each year -- and send me a dream t' hearten me!"

She looked him over, assessing him thoughtfully. "Well,” she said at last, “don' say I didn’t warn yuh." She walked past him and seated herself at the loom. His audience was over.

Barbossa strode towards the door, then halted in spite of himself. Hating any appearance of weakness, he  was, nonetheless, impelled to seek one more answer. “When will ye send the first dream?” he enquired, unable to stop the words, yet knowing he should not ask.

Tia Dalma slowly turned her head from her work and stared at him. She looked as immovable as adamantine. “W’en I choose,” she said, the smile on her lips belied by the steely finality in her voice. "Farewell, Hector Barbossa."

Some time after Barbossa had departed, Tia Dalma sat in her parlour with the young woman who had sought her protection. Nina’s errands had kept her away from the shack nearly all day, but there had still been time for her to hear Barbossa’s loud voice, as she steered her canoe home. She quickly found refuge in one of the many places where the branches of understory trees nearly touched the water. At last, Tia Dalma emerged and beckoned her to enter the now-empty parlour. The two women sat drinking mugs of a tea-like potion as Tia Dalma described Barbossa’s visit.

"Now it unfolds," she said. "De curse has claim all de fine men of de _Pearl_. Him come to me to find what dey must do to lift de curse. Poor man, now him pay for all him wickedness – tryin' t' kill Witty Jack, tryin' t' kill yuh, takin' yuh shares of de gold. Remember," she added, shaking her head, "de snare most dangerous to yuh is de wan yuh set wit' yuh own hand for others."

"Did you reveal to him how to break the curse?" Nina asked in a voice tight with fear.

"De gold mus' be return, an' blood repaid from each of dem t'ieves. And de gold was scattered by der own hands 'cross de Caribbean. Now dey must undo all der reckless foolishness." She sighed. "An' Barbossa have done de most foolish t'ing of all."

For some moments, Nina gazed at her mug of tea with an absent expression. Then she glanced up at Tia Dalma with a look of hopeful anticipation. "Well, if Jack catches him first,” she suggested, “he won't have time to undo anything. Jack will shoot the scoundrel, and then –"

"Ah!" Tia Dalma interrupted. "But, me dear, dey nah kyan die. Dey suffering more dan eternal hunger, t'irst an' desire: dere is no dyin'! No release from de horror of death-in-life. Try t' pity dem in yer heart – and t'ink yerself bless dat you an' Witty Jack escape."

Lost in thought, Nina sat solemnly with eyes lowered, clasping her mug with both hands. Tia Dalma rose from the table, and left Nina silently pondering the things she had heard.


	3. The Tribute of the Brethren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pirates attempt to gather what is needed to break the curse, but find that Barbossa's actions have caused a serious problem. Barbossa experiences his first dream in a year, and the Pearl recaptures some of the lost medallions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean.

From the moment the cannon had come to rest upon the soft, sandy bottom of the sea, Bootstrap had struggled to find any posture that was remotely tolerable. He floated a little above the sand, with his legs twisted into an awkward position, grass waving in his face, and curious fish darting forward to nip at his skin. The cannon had landed on the knots that bound him, pressing them into the sea bed. Unable to move the cannon, and lacking his cutlass, he knew escape was impossible, and so he tried to resign himself to eternity.

Each night, he had watched his own bones glistening underwater as shafts of moonlight played upon them, and he had passed endless hours wondering how soon dawn would come. He had made a game of reckoning how many more times the sun and stars would go wheeling over his eternal resting place before the seas dried up and the world ended. Would there be even one shred of his mind left by then?

Worst, and yet sweetest of all, were his hopes and fears for his family, who were never absent from his thoughts. He recalled how cheerfully he would take his leave of them after each short visit, so certain of his own return, so sure that life would continue thus for many years. Then, in the blink of an eye, his life had been frozen and rotted by the curse and, from then on, the sun would bring daylight, but no future for him.

He pictured the last time his wife and young Will bade him farewell; they had watched as the boat took him out, Margaret's hand resting on their boy's shoulder. Will had begged to be allowed on the ship, but he had refused, determined to keep up the lie that he was an honest seaman. He thought about how Margaret must have reacted to his last letter enclosing the medallion, and pictured Will many years hence, as an old man with white hair, but with the gold still in his possession.

And then one day, as his thoughts ran the same course they always followed, there had been a tremendous disturbance in the grass bed. He would have thought the hull of a ship was descending on him, except that the ship would have had to be sailing underwater.

All at once, he saw a group of creatures pushing the grass aside and surrounding him. They were somewhat like men, but with hideous deformities and embellishments to their bodies and ruined faces as though they had been half absorbed by monstrous specimens of marine life. From the midst of this fearful company emerged one who was evidently their leader. Standing before him was none other than Davy Jones.

"D'ye fear death?" Jones asked him with a sneer. "Or d'ye fear this more? Shall I cut ye free? Are ye willin' t' pay the price?"

"Aye, cap'n," Bootstrap replied. "Name your terms."

"T' serve a hundred years aboard the most infamous ship known t' man," said Jones, his eyes glittering like hard stones. "Will ye serve?"

"I'd serve the devil himself to get free," answered Bootstrap.

Jones smiled. "Done!" he declared. Using the great claw that served as his left hand, he gripped the ropes and pinched them until they broke.

At the very moment the ropes fell loose, Bootstrap and the creatures who had freed him disappeared, leaving the cannon and ropes lying abandoned in the grass bed.

Several weeks later, a strange, dark ship appeared on the horizon, surrounded by a small fog bank as she sailed towards the spot where Bootstrap had been trapped. The _Black Pearl_ was returning to reclaim her own.

Since departing from the Pantano, Barbossa had interrogated nearly every man on the _Pearl_ in an effort to trace the missing medallions. One by one, he had questioned them, recording their answers in his log. It was an exhausting, tedious chore, but he was determined to recover every piece of the stolen treasure.

Turnspittle, the ship's cook, was almost the last to be interviewed. He hesitated outside Barbossa's quarters, and then removed his hat and slicked his hair back with a greasy hand before reluctantly rapping on the door of the captain's day room. Although he knew Barbossa had summoned him merely to ask where he had spent his share of the gold, Turnspittle was always on edge in the presence of his terrifying captain. He was never sure when a chance remark might cause Barbossa to lose his temper. _An' look wot 'e did t' Bootstrap,_ Turnspittle thought. _You just watch yerself, old son, or 'e might 'ave you chucked off the ship next. This lot don't need a cook any more, do they?_

Barbossa looked up sharply as the cook sidled into his presence, hat in hand. "Well, Master Turnspittle," he said, wasting no time, "there be four pieces missin' from yer share. What's become of 'em?"

Turnspittle fiddled with his hat for a moment. "I put 'em by – with Tabor Stokes," he replied, naming a goldsmith in St Thomas who acted as banker to many pirates. Barbossa narrowed his eyes, and Turnspittle added, "I always try t' save a bit – might want 'em down the road."

Barbossa gave a short laugh and wrote something in the log. "All that be down the road fer pirates is t' die o' hempen fever," he retorted. He dismissed Turnspittle, and then sat studying the log.

Six hundred and seventy-nine medallions had been accounted for, even if they were not exactly in hand. He scanned the list, and noticed that a total of one hundred fifty medallions had been given to Tabor Stokes for safekeeping by various members of the crew. They would be visiting Mr Stokes' establishment in the near future, he decided; and he still needed to question Koehler about the last three medallions.

He closed his eyes for a moment, aware of the strange, continuous thrumming that all of them had noticed some time ago. It was not really a sound, since they heard it more in their thoughts than their ears. Similar to a swarm of bees buzzing, or a strange vibration in the distance, it was more noticeable in the quiet of his quarters than on deck. He knew what it meant; in fact, he had explained it to the crew. The low-pitched reverberation came from the medallions in the _Pearl's_ hold. It was the sound which would guide them to the rest of the missing gold, if it didn't drive them all mad first.

Would they find that Bootstrap had also gone mad by the time they pulled him from the water? Barbossa contemplated the possible effects of a month spent pinned to the sea floor. Perhaps Turner would have begun to see the sweet light of reason; he might decide to help them retrieve the gold he had hidden. It might have done him good to pay such a penalty, Barbossa mused. The one outcome that never occurred to him was that Bootstrap might have vanished.

Once they arrived in the general area where they had sunk Bootstrap, Barbossa made certain that the _Pearl_ was anchored at the position he had recorded on that fateful day. Then he sent half the crew down to search for Bootstrap. He reckoned that the search might take hours, or even days, and resigned himself to patiently awaiting the results. To his surprise and dismay, the search was over almost as soon as it had begun.

It was Pintel and Ragetti who discovered that Bootstrap was gone, and that was largely due to Ragetti's touching confidence in Barbossa's navigational skill. As the pirates fanned out across the sand, searching a mile in every direction, Ragetti had tugged on Pintel's shirt.

"Wot if Cap'n Barbossa's got us right back to the spot where 'e threw old Bill over the side?" he asked.

Pintel frowned. "Where the bloody hell d'ye think we are? Of course 'e got us back to where Bootstrap went down," he replied with annoyance.

"But, I mean, _right_ on the spot. Don't that mean Bill might be . . . there?" Ragetti pointed to the grass bed under the _Pearl_. "An' no one's lookin' there."

"Well, wot are you waitin' for? Go an' have a look!" Pintel told him.

Ragetti obliged and, within a few minutes, the two pirates were staring at the evidence of Bootstrap's escape.

"Cap'n won't like this," Ragetti said anxiously. Pintel picked up a few bits of rope, and then poked the sand with his finger, dislodging two small pieces of leather bootstraps which he added to his collection.

"No 'elp for it. Someone 'as t' tell 'im," he said resignedly, handing the items to Ragetti. "Might as well be you."

"Why me?" Ragetti protested.

"Wot can 'e do – kill ye?" Pintel pointed out. He turned about, waving his arms at the other crew members, who could be dimly seen searching other parts of the sea bed. "Come on then, let's get it over with." They took hold of the _Pearl's_ anchor line, and began to climb, hand over hand, back to the surface.

Watching Pintel clamber aboard the ship, Barbossa had a premonition of bad news. Then Ragetti appeared at the rail, and shuffled reluctantly towards Barbossa, shaking his head.

"Old Bill's got away, some'ow," he said sadly, offering the ropes and bootstraps to his captain. "This is all wot was left, apart from the cannon."

There was no change in Barbossa's expression, but he turned immediately to Bo'sun. "Call 'em in," he ordered, and waited until the last of the crew had returned.

"He's gone," he informed his men, watching their faces. It wasn't difficult to read their expressions.

They were all thinking the same thing: had it not been for his own ill temper, Bootstrap would still be standing in their midst. It was he, Barbossa, whose impulsive burst of anger had consigned Bootstrap to the depths and put him forever out of their reach. The crew's silence was a reproach, and beneath the reproach lay doubt in his ability as their leader. Barbossa took control of the situation at once, speaking in sharp, confident words.

"So we'll use the blood of his brat," he snapped. "One be as good as the other." He spoke to Bo'sun. "Give orders to weigh anchor."

As Bo'sun began calling orders, Barbossa strode towards his day room. "Bring those scraps," he called out to Ragetti.

Once in the captain's quarters, Barbossa took the rope and bootstraps to his chart table and studied them as Ragetti watched. He was perplexed to find that the ends of the rope and the bootstraps had actually been crushed until they were cut.

Unable to recognize the sort of instrument that could do this, Barbossa finally set the ropes aside and remarked, "I don't suppose Turner ever told ye where his family lives, did he?"

As he spoke, an annoying thought occurred to him: this would be exactly the sort of thing Jack Sparrow would have known without asking, the sort of thing he was good at. The men had always spoken with Sparrow about their lives, and he had seemed to listen and remember what they said; in contrast, no one on the crew ever sought out Barbossa for conversation. _As it should be,_ he assured himself. He wasn't there to fraternise. Still, he had a brief moment of doubt: _how did Sparrow do it?_

"Rotherhithe," Ragetti replied, interrupting Barbossa's train of thought. "East Lane, I think . . ." He shrugged, and added, "Near the Three Mariners Stairs, anyway, if the dust from the colliers ain't killed 'em yet ."

Barbossa nodded and jerked his head towards the door before turning his gaze back to the log book. Ragetti had stepped back obediently but, a moment later, Barbossa heard him clear his throat.

The captain looked up quickly. "Out with it," he said.

"I was just thinkin'," Ragetti began timidly. "If we're hearin' that noise from all them coins we've got stowed aboard . . ."

"Aye?" Barbossa prompted him impatiently.

"Well, I was only wond'rin' . . . how can we 'ear the other ones – them wot's far away an all?" Ragetti waited with humble expectation.

Barbossa quickly took in the implications of this, as well as the surprising revelation that perhaps Ragetti was possessed of a certain amount of insight; then he answered as though he'd known the solution all along.

"We've t' return what we're carryin' first," he explained. "Take it back to the cave. Then we'll hear the other ones callin' us."

Ragetti brightened. "Much obliged, cap'n. Should 'ave known you'd 'ave it sussed."

Barbossa acknowledged the compliment with a slight smile and a nod. He waited for Ragetti to go back to his station; then he assembled the crew at the mainmast and presented them with his plan.

"It be said," he began, "that the wise man knows what he must do, but t'is the bold man who does it. We _know_ what must be done, gents: we must restore the gold we took, and repay the blood we owe. But now we be called upon to _do_ it – whether it be with or without William Turner. True, it would have made our task easier if he were still in our midst: but _we have a way_ , even without him!" He paused for a moment, surveying their faces and gauging their willingness to hear him out.

"We go to the cave," he urged. "We return the gold we've found, and every man jack of ye repays his share of the blood owed. And then? We find the rest of the gold, and Turner's brat as well!"

He heard a rumble of approval from the crew, but continued to speak, raising his voice above the noise. "I won't ask a man of ye t' do more than I would meself, and I mean t' see it through!"

Then he raised his hands for silence. "We be well on our way t' liftin' this curse!" he proclaimed loudly. "Bo'sun! Make way fer Isla de Muerta!" And with that, he returned to his quarters, to the cheers of his crew.

Barbossa was encouraged by the determination shown by his men when the _Pearl_ reached the island. He brought the gold with him on the first longboat, and silently reviewed Tia Dalma's instructions as Twigg and Koehler piloted the boat through the cavern's tunnels and into the chamber where the empty stone chest awaited them.

Once all the men had arrived, they spoke in hushed tones, and only when necessary; otherwise, they waited in uneasy silence to do their captain's bidding. Barbossa ordered them to put the medallions in the chest, and he made a show of counting out each piece aloud, so that the crew could hear and count along with him. Then he had them stand away from the chest; he intended for the entire assembly to witness each of their shipmates stepping forward to repay his share of blood.

"Now, gents," he commanded. "Mark what I do, and what I say. This be the way we end the curse." He showed them Tia Dalma's knife, then he wrapped one hand about its blade. "Receive my blood, I humbly entreat thee," he solemnly intoned, and drew the knife swiftly across his palm. When he opened his hand, he was gratified to see a long, bloody cut from which several drops of blood fell into the chest.

Then he beckoned to Bo'sun, and handed him the knife. Bo'sun repeated the incantation, and drew the knife across his palm as Barbossa had, letting a few drops of blood spill into the chest.

Barbossa continued to direct the ceremony, which resembled an initiation as each pirate performed the ritual, then joined his brethren who had already made their symbolic offering. Feelings of relief began to replace their uncertainty, and the men talked amongst themselves; a few even laughed. They had all begun to hope that the curse would indeed be broken and their lives restored.

After the last man had spilled blood into the chest, Barbossa noticed that Ragetti was waiting nearby. "Master Ragetti," he remarked. "Ye look as though ye have a question. What be on yer mind?"

"I was only wonderin'," answered Ragetti. "'Ow do we make Bootstrap's brat say all that about receivin' blood? What if 'is brat won't say them words?"

Barbossa laughed. "T'is only ourselves that need say it – t' make the blood flow from our cursed veins. Bootstrap's brat won't need to, bein' still alive. I think ye'll find we get that blood easy enough." He grinned at the crew, who broke into cheers and laughter.

"An' then we'll be free o' the curse," he added. "D' ye know what I'm going t' do when we return t' the _Pearl_? I mean t' keep a bowl o' fresh apples in the great cabin, ready t' eat the moment the curse be broken." He acknowledged their shouts of agreement, thinking, _And that be the day I'll uncover the glass in me cabin again, an' see meself restored to me former appearance_.

It was pleasing to contemplate this idea, but he could not rid himself of the feeling that there was something else missing which would be restored to him. He realized what it was as soon as he overheard two of his men laughing about the wenches they would have after the curse was lifted. In a moment of inspiration, he remembered that there was a certain red gown aboard the _Pearl_ which was associated with the memory of an elegant beauty; he decided to have it set out on display in his cabin to remind him of the other pleasures that would soon be his.

That evening, he surveyed his quarters with satisfaction: the bowl of apples was in place, the gown was laid out upon the settle, and a bed-sheet draped over the glass so that he would not be disturbed by the sight of his true appearance.

He consulted the ship's log, and decided to visit Tabor Stokes, the goldsmith in St Thomas who should have one hundred fifty medallions in his keeping. He closed the log book and began to feel drowsy for the first time in nearly a year. _Is there to be even more good fortune tonight?_ he wondered. Perhaps he would finally sleep and enjoy the dreams he had been expectantly hoping Tia Dalma would grant him. He retired to his sleeping quarters, trying to avoid doing anything that would cause wakefulness to linger. Yes, he would sleep tonight; as soon as he had stretched out upon the berth, he fell into a light slumber that gradually deepened, until at last he began to dream.

He had no awareness that it was a dream, of course. It appeared as genuine as the cannon he had used to sink Bootstrap. He was on the Pearl, which seemed to be a wooden house, but was still a ship. There was no one about, although somehow he knew that Ragetti was happy that the gold had been restored, and he heard Ragetti's voice from somewhere over his shoulder, saying, "Now you can find everything easier."

He walked across the deck, and then inside, where he ascended a flight of stairs (this was when the ship seemed to become house-like). At the top of the stairs, he continued down a hall, stopping at an open door on his left. He looked into the room, and saw the back of a familiar figure that stood at the side of a bed. It was the girl. She seemed to be unpacking something – a sack, or perhaps a small chest – no matter. She had finished some sort of travel, and was preparing to settle in to this room. He watched her turn very slightly, just enough for him to glimpse the side of her face, as she became aware of him standing silently in the doorway. She turned to face him, holding some small folded scarf or shift in her hands.

As she turned, their eyes met, and she continued to look at him without a trace of fear or reluctance – quite the opposite, in fact. Her expression was full of serenity, welcome, acceptance, and something more – gladness. _T'is true after all,_ he thought in amazement. _I be the man who delights her, the one person she wants most to see._ She might have been smiling slightly, but he could not take his gaze from her eyes.

He stood in the doorway for several moments as if in a trance, feeling that his heart had somehow opened up. He knew without a doubt that in the next moment, as he stepped into the room, she would raise her arms; and then they would embrace. Her love would surround him, warming him. He began to take a first step – and immediately the dream flickered and dissipated like smoke. He could not call it back, and he awakened in spite of himself.

For a moment, he was too surprised to react; then he remembered Tia Dalma's warning. " _Damn_ her – the lyin' bitch," he swore angrily. You could never trust Tia Dalma. He felt a swift pang of longing, which angered him all the more. The dream had fled before he could savour it, and he would never know what might have happened.

He lay upon the berth for a time, trying to recapture each precise moment of the dream, the connection he had felt, but at last he realised that all of those sensations had gone. He could remember what took place, but not what it felt like.

His anger and resentment were still raging when they reached St Thomas; if anything, he had grown more determined to vent his fury. It was for that reason more than any practical consideration, that he accompanied his men at twilight when they set out for Tabor Stokes' establishment.

All of them could hear the gold calling as they turned down the street where the goldsmith kept his shop. They found Mr Stokes seated on a high stool, reviewing the day's transactions in his ledger. He looked up in surprise as Barbossa, Twigg, Koehler, Jacoby, Pintel and Ragetti broke down the door.

Mr Stokes was always prepared for unpleasant visitors, but as he discharged his pistol into Barbossa's chest, he was amazed to see the tall brigand laugh loudly. Then Barbossa levelled his weapon at the goldsmith and put a lead ball through his forehead. Mr Stokes dropped to the floor without a sound.

"Take it all," Barbossa snarled to his men. "He was dead already; his customers would have killed him fer losin' all their money."

The pirates made haste to empty Stokes' strongboxes and haul away those that were locked. Barbossa stood at the door as they dragged their prizes away, and though he would have relished the chance to do more violence, no one in St Thomas was bold or foolish enough to show their face.

Finally, Koehler reported that the longboat had been loaded and was ready to depart. Barbossa held still for a moment, quietly listening. When he heard no sound of the gold within the late Mr Stokes' shop, he waved his pistol towards the blood-spattered writing desk.

"An' those," he said, indicating the ledgers.

"Aye, Cap'n," Koehler replied, and scooped up all the books and papers he could lay hands on. The two pirates walked along the empty streets as though they owned the town, whilst its residents peered in breathless fear through heavily curtained windows. Barbossa's temper had gradually steadied itself and, as the crew rowed back to the _Pearl_ , he was soothed even more by the hum of the gold medallions, which lay at his feet amongst the valuables plundered from Mr Stokes.

Much later that night, Barbossa was still poring over Tabor Stokes' ledger when Twigg entered the great cabin unannounced. Twigg's whiskers were bristling with indignation.

"Bloody old devil only 'ad a hundred an' twenty. That's thirty missin'! Wot's 'e done wiv 'em? Did we miss summink?" he asked Barbossa.

Barbossa, who had not raised his eyes from the ledger, put his finger upon a line of script and looked up at Twigg. "Nay, Master Twigg. Those thirty were traded to Mr Jervis," he looked at the entry again, "who sailed on the _Lorena_ this very night, bound for London after stoppin' in Port Royal." Twigg widened his eyes and glared.

"We've t' catch 'er before she gives us the slip!" he exclaimed. Barbossa smiled.

"Ye needn't worry about her givin' us the slip," he told Twigg. "She'll never make Port Royal. She's about t' be fogbound. Tell Bo'sun t' put us on course fer Port Royal an' put on as much canvas as she'll carry."


	4. Here There Be Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Black Pearl catches the Lorena before she reaches Port Royal, and the pirates embark on the bloody deeds that will make them feared throughout the West Indies. Koehler is forced to rely on Barbossa's mercy in order to protect someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean. The original plots and characters are owned by me.

Although the weather had been fair when the _Lorena_ set sail, the last watches of the night had seen patchy fog building in from the east. Captain Harden stood at her aft rail, keeping an uneasy eye on the fog. He couldn't say why it troubled him, but he was somehow alarmed at the thought of it overtaking his ship. Still, the _Lorena_ might have made port ahead of the inclement weather if only her mizzen backstay had held together. Unfortunately, no one had observed it slowly unravelling at the top of the mizzen-mast. Each roll of the ship had severed a few more strands, until at last the entire backstay broke loose with a violent snap.

Captain Harden ordered the ship hove to, and had his bo'sun dispatch a team to repair the damage. The fog and the broken backstay put him in a nettlesome mood which was not improved when he was accosted by his least favourite passenger, the self-important, moon-faced Horace Jervis. Jervis had a nervous habit of fingering the heavy gold watch chain that adorned his waistcoat, and he appeared to be quite nervous at the moment.

"Up late, Mr Jervis?" Harden observed.

"I am a light sleeper; when the ship stopped moving, I was awakened," replied Jervis reproachfully, with a look at the mast. "Unfortunate that she should be in such ill-repair."

Harden murmured some soothing words, though he was stung by the landsman's insult to the state of his ship.

Oblivious to the effect of his words, the portly Mr Jervis continued, adding, "I hope we're not much delayed – are we not all risking our lives in these waters? Are they not infested with bloodthirsty sea robbers?"

"Nay, Mr Jervis," Harden answered testily, "Pirates be less and less common in these parts. Ye'd run more risk in the East Indies."

"Still," Jervis pursued. "Think of the value of the goods they seize! Think of the money lost by investors! And, naturally," he added, belatedly, "the innocent lives cut short!"

"I've sailed these waters for near twenty years," replied Harden, "and been boarded twice by pirates. Generally, they content themselves with plunderin' of her valuables, and don't molest the passengers unless resisted." He knocked a dottle out of the pipe he'd been smoking, and added, "I find it best to offer no resistance."

He made this last remark chiefly to goad Jervis. Harden had never been attacked by pirates, but he knew that, for the greedy little merchant, the risk of people being killed was far less upsetting than the possible theft of his possessions.

"How could you recommend such a course?" Mr Jervis burst out, clutching his watch chain. "It would be the rankest cowardice–" But Harden interrupted him.

"As long as I'm Master of the _Lorena_ , Mr Jervis, I'll do as I see fit," he said, before turning back to confer with his bo'sun.

Less than a mile astern, a ship with black sails, her lights doused by order of her captain, was drawing steadily closer. Barbossa stood on the _Pearl's_ starboard side near the bow, peering through his spyglass at the _Lorena_. Judging by the way her sails were set and the activity at the mizzen mast-head, he surmised that the _Lorena's_ crew was making a repair – one which had forced them to heave to until it was complete.

The sight made him smile. _Fortune favours us tonight,_ he thought. He closed the spyglass and turned to Ragetti, who was standing a little to one side.

"Hoist the colours," he told Ragetti in a quiet voice. "Tell 'em t' make ready the starboard guns and keep it quiet. We'll come up on her windward side in the fog, an' give her a buccaneer's kiss."

"Aye, Cap'n," Ragetti said under his breath. With a nod and a grin, he made haste to pass along Barbossa's orders.

Barbossa turned back to the _Lorena_ , listening to the faint call of the medallions. Every man on the _Pearl_ could hear it; the thrumming filled their veins with fire, calling them to seek out the gold, to seize it, and to destroy anything that stood in their way. Barbossa glanced at Jack the monkey and saw the excitement in the little animal's face; but even Jack seemed to understand that he had to keep quiet as the _Pearl_ silently gained on the _Lorena_.

Keeping an eye on the diminishing distance to his prey, Barbossa glanced quickly behind him to make sure the gunners were in position. When the two ships were quite near each other, he signaled with his arm to release the sheets and slow the _Pearl_. As they drifted slowly abeam of the _Lorena_ , he suddenly shouted, "Fire!"

Captain Harden heard the shouted order, but it was far too late. There was a brilliant yellow flash off to larboard, followed a split second later by a deafening roar, as the _Pearl_ fired a broadside into the _Lorena_. Captain Harden found himself hurriedly following the philosophy he had blithely explained to Mr Jervis – amidst the screams of his crew and passengers, he struck his colours at once and called for quarter.

The _Lorena's_ dozen or so passengers milled about the main deck in panic as the pirates boarded her. "Where's the cap'n?" demanded Pintel loudly amidst a cacophony of shouting from the _Pearl's_ crew. He brandished his pistol under the noses of the terrified passengers. "Bring 'im out!"

At the same time, Twigg was shouting threats to force the same passengers to line up on the main deck. One luckless member of the _Lorena's_ crew failed to step aside quickly enough for Twigg, who drew his cutlass and slashed the man across his chest. In short order, the trembling passengers were standing in formation, Pintel and Ragetti had secured Captain Harden and the _Lorena's_ officers to the main-mast, and the rest of her crew had been herded together and made to sit on the deck some distance away, guarded by Koehler and Jacoby.

A hush fell over the passengers a moment later, when a tall, shadowy figure stepped onto the _Lorena's_ deck and approached them with a loping, deliberate stride. They moved about anxiously –- tethered prey being stalked by a lion.

As Barbossa paced the length of the line in silence, some passengers tossed pieces of jewelry and small pouches of coins at his feet, hoping to forestall the further use of force. Barbossa ignored their trinkets; he could hear the gold quite clearly, and it led him to a rotund little merchant whose quivering face shone with rivulets of perspiration. The man was standing next to an overdressed, whey-faced matron who was evidently his wife. Barbossa stopped, eyeing the couple. He drew his pistol and cocked it.

"Deliver yer goods or by God I'll blow off her head," he demanded loudly, pointing his weapon at Jervis' wife.

"Take it all," cried Jervis, and began snatching his wife's rings off her fingers. All of her jewels were thrown down on the deck, and Jervis laid his watch down as well, but did not produce the medallions. Barbossa could still hear them, a faint hum coming from the right pocket of Jervis' waistcoat.

Captain Harden suddenly called out, "We called for quarters! We yield all our goods and valuables! What is it ye want?"

"Shut it!" Barbossa snarled, glaring at the captain. Harden's question unsettled him; it was indeed remarkable for pirates to spurn valuables of any kind, and he suddenly felt that his true purpose risked exposure. _Better to plunder the ship of all she carries_ , he reasoned.

"Gents, relieve 'em of their cargo an' stores," he ordered his men grandly. "I want everything." He turned back to Mr Jervis _. I'll give ye one last chance to play the gentleman,_ he thought.

"Stand off," he ordered the other passengers, who made haste to back away from Mr Jervis. Once more, Barbossa pointed his pistol at the woman's head.

"Now: deliver what I know yer carryin', or she dies," he said.

Jervis swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. "I can't give you what I don't have," he whined.

Barbossa raised his eyebrows. "Not even fer her life?" he enquired with disgust.

Jervis' face grew red, but he said nothing.

Barbossa began to squeeze the trigger, as Jervis shut his eyes and hunched his shoulders. Then, with a swift movement, he swung the pistol around and shot Jervis through the head.

Jervis dropped to the deck and his wife shrieked as she collapsed to her knees.

Barbossa motioned to Koehler to approach. "Right pocket, Master Koehler," he muttered, gesturing with the smoking pistol. Koehler extracted a purse from Jervis' waistcoat pocket and handed it to Barbossa as Jervis' wife burst into loud wails.

"Shut yer bawlin'," Barbossa ordered her. He shook the purse in her face. "Less he loved ye than what's in this purse."

He had just holstered his weapon when the moon appeared through the clouds, shining through the fog and revealing the true nature of the pirates. As the panicked screaming began, the pirate crew raised their weapons, and Barbossa called out his final orders.

"Bind 'em all fast," he commanded his men. "Blow the powder magazine. Scuttle her. No survivors, no tales o' what they saw."

The pirates worked with deadly efficiency, and it was not long afterwards that they watched from the deck of the _Pearl_ as the _Lorena_ went up in a blazing explosion. The curse prevented them from feeling the heat of the blast, but they did feel the fiery splinters of wood and iron that rained down on them.

 _Thirty more medallions,_ thought Barbossa, brushing cinders off his coat sleeve. He was still angry over Jervis' daring to argue with him, and disgusted at the man's willingness to abandon his wife to keep the gold. _Next time, I'll kill 'em all first,_ he promised himself. _No one to argue with me, and no survivors tellin' tales of what I were searching for._

He turned from the rail to find Pintel and Ragetti standing behind him. Ragetti was holding a silk parasol that he had evidently taken from the _Lorena_ , and Pintel's eyes glinted in a way that always heralded a ridiculous plan of some sort. Barbossa raised his eyebrows as Pintel addressed him.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Cap'n," Pintel began, "but this bit o' frippery made me think o' the last thing Bootstrap said before we hoisted 'im from the yard. Said 'e knew 'ow t' make a fortune off Jack's little poppet–"

"Off a dead lass?" Barbossa scoffed. "The curse turned his wits."

Ragetti laughed. "Turned Turner's wits," he chortled.

Pintel's smile faded, but Barbossa's curiosity had been piqued. "An' how did Bootstrap say we could come at these riches?" he asked.

Brightening at once, Pintel answered, "'Er uncle's put a fair price on 'er – I thought we might disguise one of us with a gown an' all, and—"

"It be the _medallions_ we need," Barbossa pointed out sharply. "Unless the uncle can pay with Aztec gold, what care I for ransoms? Back t' work, ye bottle-headed sea slugs!" He glared after them as they retreated, and then spoke to Bo'sun. "Send Koehler t' me quarters," he said, and made his way to the day room.

Koehler entered to find Barbossa seated at the table with the open log before him. "Three missin' medallions," Barbossa said, without preamble. Koehler nodded quickly.

"Aye, Cap'n," he said, staring at the floor with a sullen expression.

He looked unwilling and yet anxious to speak, and Barbossa waited to hear him out. Koehler, he mused, had sailed with him for many years, and this man, standing before him now with stooped shoulders and glowering expression, had not always looked so menacing. Years ago, Koehler's messmates would joke that he had more luck plundering ladies than ships, and indeed he had won many a female heart with his dark eyes and handsome looks.

"I'll get you the medallions," Koehler said at last. Barbossa could sense something in his voice akin to fear, which he would have sworn was unknown to Koehler.

"Thank ye," he said. "An' where might ye be fetchin' 'em from?" Koehler hesitated, but then seemed to resolve some momentary doubt.

"Saint-Pierre," he replied, staring hard at Barbossa. "Solange has them." There was a silence while Barbossa tried to remember if Koehler had ever before mentioned the little town in Martinique, or any woman named Solange.

"My wife," Koehler explained. Still looking Barbossa in the eye, he added, "She knows nothing of the curse. If she gives them up quietly . . ."

"Ye needn't worry if she does," answered Barbossa, dishonestly. "But . . . if she doesn't . . ."

"Then she would not be the woman I think she is," Koehler replied with a serious look. Barbossa nodded, and no more was said on the subject until the _Pearl_ reached Martinique.

Saint-Pierre, a small, picturesque town, lay nestled at the foot of a volcano on one of the loveliest islands in the Antilles. The first sign that the pirates were nearing their destination was the sight of Martinique's steep, mountainous peaks growing taller as the _Pearl_ approached, as though they were steadily emerging from the depths of the ocean. Even at that distance, the most casual observer would have been struck by the lush, emerald verdure of the jungle-like forests that covered every part of the mountains.

Then, as the _Pearl_ drew closer, the bright, narrow ribbon of Saint-Pierre came into view. Its cobbled streets were lined with brilliant yellow and orange houses with red tile roofs and blue shutters, looking like a flock of tropical birds perched on a single, long branch in the midst of an impossibly green rainforest.

All this time, Barbossa had been surveying the shore through his spyglass, but now he lowered it. He remembered the town well, and allowed himself to muse on pleasant memories of Saint-Pierre.

 _It must be more than ten years,_ he thought, recalling her narrow little side streets that struggled up from the harbour towards the steep slopes of the mountains. He remembered walking those streets, inhaling the intoxicating perfume of cinnamon, sugar, mangoes and coconut that sweetened the air, whilst listening to the continual, soft, rustling flow of the many _rivières_ that surrounded the town. _A jewel of a town,_ he thought. And now he could no longer immerse himself in her many charms.

The _Pearl_ lingered several miles off shore in the sapphire waters until just after sunset. Then, because the land shelved away so steeply, Barbossa was able to bring the _Pearl_ very close to the island's rocky coastline, with its multitude of coves and inlets – so close that the eerie fog that surrounded the _Pearl_ rolled a good way up the sides of the mountains behind the town.

Koehler might have expected to go ashore by himself, but Barbossa boarded the longboat in silence, and Koehler rowed them to shore without a word. When they disembarked, Barbossa waved Koehler ahead, and the two men started up a side street so steeply pitched that it had been built with steps cut at several points. The street bore the fanciful name of "Rue Mont-au-Ciel", or "Climb-to-Heaven Street", and at the very top of it lived Koehler's wife, Solange Cyparis.

When they reached the cramped little stucco house, Koehler turned to Barbossa, who stepped back into a dark recess between two of the humble dwellings. He nodded to Koehler, and waited in the shadows.

Koehler looked quickly about, then went to the door and rapped on it softly. In a moment, someone opened the door, and light from inside the house spilled into the street. In the doorway stood Solange, tall and willowy, with light coffee-coloured skin and large, dark eyes framed by the perfect arc of her eyebrows, giving her face the appearance of an elegant doll. Her hair was pulled back and gathered simply at the crown of her head, without ringlets or any other adornment. Barbossa was astonished and envious of Koehler's pretty, graceful wife.

Solange threw her arms about her husband and drew him inside. Barbossa could see them through the glassless window, and hear Koehler reluctantly telling her that he must have the medallions. There was a moment's pause, and Barbossa made ready to draw his pistol and put an end to this encounter if Solange became distraught. However, there was only a softly murmured "Mais, pourquoi?"as she tried to read her husband's intentions. Koehler shook his head, full of mute misery, but Solange had grasped all that was necessary.

She gently disengaged herself from his arms, and fetched a small leather purse, which she handed to Koehler. _How did he make her do that so willingly?_ Barbossa thought as he watched with astonishment.

Koehler was nervously bidding a quick farewell, unable to answer his wife's questions, and (Barbossa speculated) perhaps knowing the long, hellish exile to which he was condemned to return. In any case, he made such haste that he stepped out of the door and straight into a silvery patch of moonlight that instantly exposed his rotting, skeletal form.

Solange, who had followed him with her arms outstretched, froze in horror.

Once more, Barbossa began to tighten his grip on his pistol, but once more Solange confounded his expectations. Grief-stricken and frightened, she nonetheless reached out tentatively, coaxing Koehler, even taking him by his skeletal wrist, and drawing the despairing man back into the shelter of the house, where he resumed his human form. She embraced him tenderly, holding him for a long time. At last, she spoke some words softly in his ear, to which he nodded agreement, keeping his head bowed. She withdrew into the house once more, and returned with two small children clinging to her hands. She lifted them to Koehler's arms, one after the other.

 _She knows this be the last farewell,_ Barbossa mused. _How is it that she still loves, seein' the monster he is now?_ He dropped his hand from his pistol, fighting down the desolation that threatened to fill his breast.

Even after their farewells were said, she stood outside to watch her husband as he walked away. When he passed the corner where Barbossa waited, his captain stepped forward and walked with him in silence and without looking back.

It was not until they were back on the _Pearl_ that Barbossa ventured to look through his glass at the shore. At water's edge in the moonlight, with wisps of fog curling about her, stood Solange, Koehler's lonely guardian angel, looking helplessly out to sea.

In the weeks that followed, Barbossa noticed a change in Koehler: he seemed to resign himself more to his cursed existence, becoming more sullen, more merciless than ever. He followed orders, but there was a ferocity and dull anger in his gaze that gradually became permanent, and he rarely looked his captain in the eyes.

On a sunny morning six months after visiting Martinique, Barbossa found himself standing at the larboard rail, pondering whether the boon he had obtained from Tia Dalma was, in fact, a comfort or an ordeal. A second strange dream had come to him only the night before. He was holding a green apple in his hand, purely out of habit, as he mulled over the perplexing dream.

He had not expected to sleep again so soon, and had been pleased to find himself becoming drowsy. He had fallen asleep quite easily, and soon the dream began.

This time, he was seated at a table in a house somewhat like the one in Saint-Pierre where he had watched and envied Koehler. The setting, therefore, was easy to explain; but the rest of the dream was mysterious and frustrating, tantalizing him with suggestions of a meaning he could not quite discern.

There had been a woman seated on his lap who might have been Solange, since she whispered " _Mon ange_ ," softly in his ear. Her arms encircled his neck and she leaned against his chest, but then she raised her head to glance shyly at him for an instant, and he saw that it was Nina. His ability to feel, to taste and to smell had returned, and he was keenly aware of the warmth and softness of her body lying against him.

Holding her in this way had made him conscious of a new feeling – a strong, almost overwhelming urge to protect her. She had twined herself about him, resting her head close to his neck. He remembered the sensation of the small hand grasping his pigtail and tightening affectionately, trustingly about it. _Aye,_ he thought with longing, recalling the dream. _She trusted me._

There was an air of quiet serenity over the scene, and he had noticed that they were breathing, he thought, in unison. He had said, "I'll keep ye safe," wanting to promise her this, wanting her to belong to him.

But she had shaken her head. What had she answered? You can't? You won't? Something like, "because of dying", but the exact words had already faded from his memory.

Then the dream had started to change, and he remembered the feeling of her warm breath as she kissed the side of his face. Suddenly overflowing with desire for her, he had kissed her mouth, wanting to drown in these sweet feelings. He had brought his hand up to caress her breast, and just as he touched her there, the dream had ended.

What had cast his spirits even lower was the thought of how little this slight contact would have meant to him before being cursed. And now he was pitifully grateful for the brief dream, struggling to recapture every sensation and luxuriate in it before it fled, yet knowing it was all quite hopeless. He was ready to accept Tia Dalma's warning that his wished-for dreams would make the rest of the time worse for him. Greed, or lust, which was simply greed by another name, had made him bargain yet again for something that was not his, and which he could not enjoy. But even more troublesome was his growing suspicion that he might be harbouring some sort of unexpected feelings towards the girl in the dreams.

He tried to think of the last time he had wanted to protect anyone. Glancing at Jack the monkey, he thought, _Well, except for you._

Then he remembered the battle on the _Pearl_ , when he had slyly cut the locket off her neck with one swift flick of his sword while she was distracted. And then? Why had he followed her when she chased after the two pirates?

She had been ready to fire on them from their own deck, and follow them down the hatchway, where she would have been cut down. Stupid. Had he been protecting her, or had he simply been looking after a less-than-expert shipmate? And why did he still think of protecting her?

As if anything could threaten a drowned lass. As if he could protect a drowned lass. These were dangerous feelings, he realised.

He should have taken her when he had the chance, he thought, forced himself on her, even before sending Sparrow overboard. _Now I be a dead man, haunted for all time by a living ghost._ He looked down and discovered that, without conscious thought, he had once more taken the hairpin from his coat pocket, and was clutching it tightly. _Let the damned thing go, and her with it,_ he thought. _Throw it into the sea, where her body rests until the Last Day._

He watched his hand as it slowly returned the pin to his pocket. _Ye can't even let a hairpin go,_ he thought, with an ache in his chest. He looked at the apple in his other hand – its shiny green skin covering the juicy, sweet fruit he could not enjoy. _I wish I'd never tasted you,_ he thought with great bitterness. Suddenly, he pitched the apple overboard, as hard as he could throw it.

* * *

Next: Bootstrap's medallion eludes the Pearl.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: One of the reasons pirates were so successful at this time was that ships chiefly used latitudes for navigation. When sailing to their destination, they would sail to the latitude of the port where they were going, and then stay on it until they arrived. This made it quite easy for pirates to know where ships would be and, in this case, for the Pearl to find the Lorena.


	5. A Captain So Evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbossa reflects on a few memorable raids, and some of the women in his past. The Black Pearl has a fateful encounter with an Indiaman bound for Port Royal. But do the pirates know what has slipped through their fingers?

The cavern that sheltered the pirates’ gold and the chest of Cortés was almost never in total darkness. Ancient sinkholes pierced its limestone roof, letting narrow shafts of natural light fall here and there amongst the shadows. Nonetheless, Barbossa’s men always brought torches with them, and the mass of gold caught the light of their moving flames in a thousand little reflections that made the treasure glint as though tiny sparks of fire danced upon it.

On this, their third visit, the crew of the _Pearl_ moved diligently to and fro across the cavern and through its tunnels. They unloaded treasure from the ship’s holds in boxes, bushel baskets, barrels, pails, or anything else that they could carry, pouring out their plunder on the ground near the stone chest.

There was enough swag now to make a shallow hill under the chest of Cortés, and six of the crew had already hoisted the chest and placed it atop the gold. By this time, all of them knew the work they must do, and they went about it with scarcely a word from Bo’sun, who stood watch, or from their captain, who leaned over the stone chest, staring into it as if he could make the remaining medallions appear by sheer force of will. But Barbossa’s thoughts were taken up with recollections of the raids that were slowly adding more gold to the chest. As he stared at the heap of identical medallions in the chest, he still fancied he could pick out the ones they had captured in each raid.

Those four, near his right hand – he was certain they had come from the drifting boat he had discovered a week before. There were five men in it, from a merchant ship that had broached and gone down in heavy weather three weeks earlier; but one of them had four medallions hidden under his shirt, and that was enough to draw the pirates. The survivors had exhausted their food and water, and were dying in the grip of fantastical hallucinations when they spied the _Pearl_ sailing towards them on the dark sea.

The man with the medallions must have reckoned he’d be picked up by a ship before he died, and would go ashore as a wealthy man. Barbossa smiled, remembering. Just like himself, however, the man was not in a position to enjoy his riches; and Barbossa considered that his order to cut the throats of all five proved his own merciful nature, because it put an end to their misery.

Then he glanced at ten medallions that lay heaped in a corner of the chest. Their recovery had been a happy coincidence, due to his very enterprising crewman, Ned Mallot.

At a small port known to him, Mallot had gone ashore during the day to see if he could quietly extract a barrel or two of gunpowder from the local armoury, when he had been recognised by a very drunken former acquaintance, who had not heard news of the curse. He pressed Mallot to accompany him to the tavern, and as he drank, complained to his friend that the local customs officials had got ten fancy medallions as bribes from himself and other local smugglers, but had still cheated them of their bargains.

Crafty Mallot had got the names of the customs collectors before quietly dispatching his friend in a convenient alley, and picking the dead man’s pockets. He then used the stolen money to convince a dishonest watchman at the dock to help him load two barrels of gunpowder into his boat without a fuss.

Barbossa laughed softly to himself. Sharp, cunning Mallot; a dangerous man, and one he’d want to keep his eye on, he decided.

A week later, when the _Pearl_ caught up with the customs sloop, the revenue men had proved themselves cowards – hiding and refusing to fight Barbossa’s men. He had ordered his crew to take their munitions, since the _Pearl_ was running low. After that, the pirates had chased the unfortunate officers round the rigging like cats chasing mice, cutting their throats and taking back the medallions.

One man had tried to escape in the ship’s boat, but it drifted away before he could drop into it, leaving him hanging off the ship by his fingers. Barbossa had trod on them, and threatened to feed the man to the sharks in pieces if he didn’t surrender the gold. When the man offered a purse, Barbossa had seized it, and run his sword through the man’s chest. _An’ kept me word_ , he thought, congratulating himself. _He weren’t in pieces when the sharks got him._

In all, they had taken forty medallions. Now they needed four hundred and eighty-nine more. Barbossa closed his eyes for a moment, squeezing his eyelids shut. At this rate, it would take forever. At this rate, he didn’t want to complete his calculations. He watched Koehler and Twigg as they brought in a huge crate of gold and poured it out onto the heap of treasure. Koehler looked up briefly when he finished, and his sullen eyes met Barbossa’s gaze for an instant before he turned back to his work, his expression unchanged. Everything was in that one look; his captain had seen, firsthand, the price of the curse for Koehler, and knew that Koehler held him responsible.

Again, Barbossa thought of Solange’s tenderness towards her doomed husband, and tried to imagine himself enjoying that degree of devotion: a pretty woman, caring, reaching out, standing loyally at the water’s edge for sheer love of him, no matter what befell.

He turned his gaze back to the contents of the chest, recalling different women in his past. There was the one he had trusted, thinking she would never desert him, until the day she betrayed him to one of his enemies without a backward glance. After that, he’d found another, a cheerful wench who could match his drinking, tankard for tankard. He had enjoyed her company at first, but she had grown to love rum more than him; her bonny looks were ruined, and her sweet temper became as sour and angry as his own before they parted.

And then? Ah, yes! There was the one he had aspired to claim as his own because he thought her spirited, and wanted to conquer her. They had fought like cats and dogs, which he mistook as a sign of their passion. How many times had she demanded his money and his fidelity, with many an oath and much smashed crockery? He still remembered the anger and humiliation he felt when he found that every coin he gave her went to another man. Then he had almost killed her; after a blazing row, she stormed out, vowing that one day she would stand at the foot of the gallows expressly to watch him be hanged.

Barbossa shook his head at the memory. How could you trust anyone? How had Koehler managed it? No, he had never known, nor ever would know, the kind of love that Koehler had lost. Perhaps yielding to the siren song of imagination was better. He could envision this “Nina”, not as she was, but as he chose to imagine her, mourning him, clasping him.

As he mused thus, he was startled to hear Jacoby and the Ox shouting that the _Pearl’s_ holds were now empty. He shook off his mood, and called out, “Then t’is back t’ the ship, ye bilge rats, and don’t take all day – we’ve work t’ do!”

That evening, as Barbossa consulted his log once more, the red dress that lay upon the settle caught his eye. Though he had promised himself to avoid certain lines of thought, his quick mind darted ahead of his intentions, and again posed questions that had no answer.

Was the wretched girl alive or not? He recalled finding her boots next to the gun port and the cannon with the rope tied around it. She had gone out the port and shimmied down the rope – or fallen – into the sea. _Witless, obstinate little fool,_ he thought. _If she be dead, t’is no fault of anyone but herself. Now stifle yer curiosity,_ he warned himself, _or ye’ll end like the poor cat in the fable._

His anger at her stupidity comforted him; it was easier to think of her that way than to be pining for a drowned lass. But had she drowned? Or was she alive, and would she be old and grey by the time the curse was lifted?And what was Tia Dalma doing with the braid of her hair? He walked over to Jack the monkey’s perch and sought distraction in the little animal’s chattering and playful antics, until the next watch was called.

The following morning, Ragetti heard a faint but familiar humming sound in the distance, and immediately consulted Pintel.

“It’s _really quiet_ , but I think it’s one ‘o them medallions,” he told Pintel in a hushed voice. “Should I tell Cap’n Barbossa?”

“If you’re really ‘earin’ of it, then why ain’t the rest of us ‘earin’ it?” Pintel demanded. “Why ain’t Barbossa ‘earin’ it? P’raps the curse is just makin’ your ears ring.”

Ragetti shook his head, and just at that moment, Barbossa emerged from his quarters, looking about him like a hungry wolf sniffing the air. His eye fell on Ragetti. “Ye hear it, don’t ye?” he asked sharply. “An’ just when did ye mean t’ mention it?”

Before Ragetti could answer, Barbossa pushed past him, calling orders to set a course almost due north from their current position. Pintel and Ragetti exchanged glances, and Pintel shrugged. “Looks like ‘e don’t need us t’ tell ‘im, don’it?” he remarked with a grin.

For the next three days, the _Pearl_ followed the sound of the gold. On the fourth day, Barbossa scanned the horizon through his spyglass, and sighted a large, three-masted Indiaman some distance away. Hidden in the fog, he had no fear of being discovered by the Indiaman, but the larger ship carried more sail, and her hull speed was faster, which concerned him. He reflected upon whether she might, under the right conditions, give the _Pearl_ a great deal of trouble catching her. He checked the appearance of the water around her, and concluded that the winds were lighter where she sailed; perhaps they could get close enough to trap her.

He kept a careful watch on her over the next hour as the _Pearl_ drew closer, and was surprised to see her take in canvas and heave to, although he couldn’t detect any sign of a problem.

 _By the powers,_ he wondered, _what the devil is she waitin’ for?_

On board the Indiaman _Enid_ , out of Bristol, Captain Claughton was looking aft, anxiously peering through the fog for the slightest trace or sound of a vessel. He knew that there was a ship of the line not more than a day’s sailing behind him, and he had hove to in hopes of encountering her. He was in dire need of help with a nasty situation on the _Enid_.

For reasons that would, as it turned out, forever remain a mystery, one of the _Enid’s_ deckhands had got into a brawl with the ship’s cook, and dispatched him with the largest cleaver in the galley. Then the deckhand, one Mason Shanker, had fled to some bolt hole, threatening to blow up the ship and every soul on her if anyone pursued him. Captain Claughton had not known a moment’s peace after discovering that Shanker, as far as could be told, was likely hiding out in the powder magazine.

Claughton heaved a nervous sigh and looked aft of the _Enid_ once more. No sign of the warship in this damned weather, though he knew she would be invisible until she was almost upon them. He hoped she would emerge from the fog before Shanker blew them all to kingdom come _. If I’d wanted this sort of excitement, I could have joined the bloody navy,_ he thought.

Then he heard a panicked shout from his lookout: “Ship, on our larboard beam! Closin’ fast!” Claughton turned just in time to see a black ship with a ghoulish maiden as her figurehead, making straight for the _Enid_. The strange ship turned smartly and had actually collided with her before Claughton saw the black sails and pirate colours, and knew the _Enid_ was doomed.

On board the _Pearl_ , Barbossa was bellowing commands, as the pirates threw their grapples and leapt onto the _Enid_ , chasing crew and passengers alike, and cutting down anyone in their path, just as their captain had ordered them. The ship became a scene of pandemonium and slaughter; the deck ran with blood and the air filled with screams and smoke from the many pistols discharged on both sides. At last, Twigg swung his sword at the neck of the last survivor, and suddenly there was quiet. The pirates stood on deck for a moment, slightly out of breath, before Barbossa gave them the order to seize all the cargo and bring it aboard.

As the pirates began to bring up the cargo, Twigg approached Barbossa. “I ‘eard a few noises below,” he said in a confidential tone. “Think we’ve got someone ‘idin’ in the magazine.” Barbossa raised his eyebrows and turned to Bo’sun.

“Take the _Pearl_ an’ stand off,” he said. “We’ll bring over the swag in her longboats.”

The two ships drew apart, and as each boat was rowed over to the _Pearl_ , Barbossa sensed that the gold was still on the _Enid_. When the last boat was loaded with baskets, trunks and a crate, he stepped into it with Twigg and two others. If the call of the gold grew fainter by the time they reached the _Pearl_ , he would send a dozen crew back over to tear the Indiaman apart down to her bilges, and hope whoever was in the magazine didn’t set off an explosion.

“Pull for the _Pearl_ , me hearties,” Barbossa called out. The men seized their oars but, not two strokes later, the _Enid_ exploded in a huge fireball that billowed into the sky.

The pirates laughed and shouted cheers at the sight, but Barbossa looked grim. If the gold were not in this last load of cargo, it would mean searching through all the debris to find it. Still, he was able to hear the humming sound, so there was a chance that he had it aboard, perhaps in one of the two fancy trunks in the longboat.

Amidst the raucous cheering, the top of a basket was thrown open, and to everyone’s astonishment, a frightened boy in worn-looking clothes popped out, blinking as he looked about him. “Please,” he begged the jeering men, “please . . .”

But whatever he meant to ask for was lost, because at that moment, Twigg stood up in the boat and swung his oar wildly at the boy’s head, almost missing him, but tapping him hard enough to throw him off balance. The boy tried to hold onto the gunwale as the boat rocked, and Twigg took a staggering step towards him. Then the boy fell into the water, and struggled to stay afloat, to the general laughter of the pirates.

“D’ ye think this be a game, Twigg?” Barbossa shouted, red-faced. With an angry look, he held out his hand to Twigg and took the oar. He poked at the boy and prodded him onto a piece of the _Enid’s_ deck, where he passed out. “Now there’s nothin’ t’ distract ye,” Barbossa said, glaring at the crew. As the laughter died and the men stared at him, Barbossa lashed out at Twigg.

“Who d’ ye think ye are?” he snarled. “I give the orders here! Ye could endanger the boat in the midst o’ burnin’ wreckage -- just so’s ye could have yer bit o’ fun! Do something like that again, an’ I’ll leave ye in the magazine next time!”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Twigg muttered, subsiding back into his place.

As they rowed beyond the wide field of floating debris that marked the end of the _Enid,_ Barbossa noticed that the call of the medallion was growing faint once again. The crew had begun to bring the cargo onto the _Pearl_ , but he stopped them and ordered Pintel and Ragetti into the boat at once.

“The medallion’s amongst the wreckage,” he cried, “Find it!”

But before they could climb down the ladder to the boat, Ragetti turned to Barbossa in alarm. “Cap’n!” he said, wide-eyed as he pointed towards the unmistakable silhouette of a large warship approaching the wreck. Immortal they might be, but the pirates still feared capture – spending innumerable years incarcerated in a cell with no chance of hunting down the rest of the medallions.

Barbossa reacted at once. “Let fall the mainsail!” he shouted. “Haul aft the mainsheet!” Better avoid a confrontation, and return afterwards to recover their prize, he reckoned. Taking the helm of the _Pearl_ , he steered her slowly south by southeast, away from the warship and the remains of the _Enid_.

Later that day, when the warship had departed and the _Pearl_ returned, there was no more sound from the gold. The pirates searched frantically through the wreckage, but found nothing.

On the _Pearl’s_ main deck, Koehler argued with Ragetti. “Did anyone actually _see_ a medallion? Maybe everything we went through was just because you _thought_ you heard something!”

“There had to be a medallion,” Ragetti protested. “Cap’n heard it, too!” The two pirates glanced at Barbossa, who gave them both a murderous look before striding off to his quarters.

Once alone, Barbossa opened the ship’s log, but found he could not concentrate. He slammed shut the book and pitched it towards a bulkhead. Then he sat still, trying to master his temper and his thoughts. He had failed to get the medallion. He was certain he had heard it, and now it was gone. He had no idea where it had come from, or where in the wreckage it had been lost.

And what had possessed him, that he had stopped that young imp from drowning? This was a difficult question, and made him very uncomfortable, for the answer lay in his own boyhood. For just a moment, as the boy had turned a desperate face to Barbossa, he had seen himself at about the same age, pleading as once he used to plead for food, for a place to sleep, for small favours from people who could well afford to give, back in the years before he had stopped pleading and began taking instead.

Miles away, on board the _Dauntless_ , the boy from the _Enid_ was lying in a stupour, under the care of the ship’s surgeon. He had given them the name of the ship, and the doctor felt it would be well to let him recover a bit before pressing him further.

At the same time, Governor Swann’s serious little daughter was insisting to Mr Gibbs that she had seen a ship with black sails – “a _pirate_ ship,” she emphasised – sailing away from the wreck. However, feeling that somehow she was a part of some great, secret adventure, she did not tell anyone the boy’s name or anything about the golden coin she had taken from him.

 _T’was the cursed pirates_ , thought Mr Gibbs. _Cursed pirates if I ever heard of ‘em, an’ a ship with black sails, eh?_ And he began to weave these details into other stories he had heard, for the enjoyment and enlightenment of those kind companions who paid for his drinks in various ports-of-call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: (not posted yet) Tia Dalma tells an ancient story, and Barbossa dreams of a ship becalmed.  
> Disclaimer: I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean. Original characters and plots are owned by me.


	6. The Wine-Dark Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tia Dalma tells an ancient tale of unrequited love, and Barbossa dreams of a ship becalmed. In Tortuga, a fateful meeting occurs.

_Still two hundred and forty-nine medallions short,_ thought Barbossa, closing the ship's log. Six weary years had passed, and they had only five hundred and thirty-three medallions to show for it. Each day, he faced a greater challenge as he strove to keep up his spirits. The gold was becoming more widely scattered: he could no longer recall how many ships and settlements they had attacked, often recovering only one or two medallions.

They had certainly wrought sufficient havoc and violence to justify the bloodthirsty tales that were told in hushed voices throughout the Caribbean; stories of the ship with black sails, crewed by the damned, with a captain so evil that Hell itself had spat him forth. It was said that this ship never made port, and that no one knew whence she sailed; but everyone knew that she brought death to those unlucky enough to cross her path.

In the cavern, the mountain of treasure was growing.

For six years, Barbossa had maintained the _Pearl_ in a state of preparedness for the redemption he was determined to win. Fresh victuals, especially his favourite apples, were routinely taken on board, to await the moment when eating them would finally end the sharp pangs of starvation that ravaged his body. And for six years, the result was the same: eventually, like an offering steadfastly ignored by indifferent gods, the untouched food would spoil, the apples going soft and turning a milky brown. Then fresh stores would be brought to replace the spoilt food (sometimes long after it had decayed, since not a man among them could smell the rot).

Lately, Barbossa had found that the apples and gown that were kept in his quarters no longer served to strengthen his resolve; it was not that his appetites had slackened, but because hope was slowly slipping through his fingers. Despite his anger, despite his ferociously resolute nature, his thoughts sometimes gave way to despair. Would they ever find all the medallions? How would they find Bootstrap's child, assuming that death by sickness or misadventure had not already baulked them of their prey?

Now and then, he would return to the shrouded glass in his sleeping quarters, uncover it, and stare. Familiarity had hardened him to the sight of his reflection, and he would inspect his image in silence, wondering what sort of a creature he had become.

On this occasion, the sixth anniversary of the curse, he stood before the glass, gazing at himself; but his thoughts were far away. He was ruminating on a new insight that had come to him in the midst of their most recent venture.

That particular search had taken the _Pearl_ to Trinidad, where the pirates had heard the gold calling them from an area south of the old capital of San José de Oruña. Barbossa and six of the crew had put ashore and gone in search of it.

They had followed a sandy trail leading inland from the coast, through a tropical dry forest. The humming sound grew louder as they advanced, until at last they knew the gold was close at hand.

Through the trees, they had glimpsed a clearing ahead of them, with the smouldering remains of a fire at its centre. The clearing appeared to be occupied by a makeshift encampment such as outlaws or vagrants would build, and four men could be seen sprawled near the fire, apparently sleeping.

Weapons drawn, Barbossa and his men had moved hungrily forwards, but none of the figures near the fire moved as their camp was invaded. A closer look revealed the reason: the men had all been dead for hours – perhaps for as much as a day. Some of the bodies bore wounds from pistols, others from knives or cutlasses. They had evidently fought amongst themselves, dying at each other's hands in some drunken brawl over the medallions, which lay scattered upon the ground.

As Jacoby and Twigg collected the gold, Barbossa had found himself feeling unexpectedly cheated, as though he had been deprived of something he was eagerly seeking _. The medallions be here,_ he thought. _What else could I be craving?_

And then the answer had come to him: he was disappointed that the men were dead, for he had wanted to kill them himself. He had glanced at Jacoby and Twigg, who wore the same look of puzzled disappointment. It struck him then that they had all come to _need_ the killings. For them, slaughter was now the only pleasure possible; for a brief moment, it could relieve their anger and overshadow their fear.

Barbossa brooded over this discovery as he stared at himself in the glass. _Aye,_ he thought dejectedly, _anger be no different than lust or greed – t'is no more than another appetite that wants feedin'. We be consumed by it, just as we be consumed by the others._

He turned from the glass and walked slowly back to his chart table, pondering his situation. No dreams had come to him for several years. Hungry, thirsty, sleepless, and loveless, Barbossa could scarcely remember what rest, food, drink, or affection felt like; they were becoming alien experiences. He was drying up, becoming an empty shell like the desiccated husk of a dead wasp, and nothing could prevent it. His soul was shrinking, his human nature diminishing. He was losing the fight.

He gazed despondently at his chart table, and his eye fell upon Sparrow's compass. He recalled how they had seized Sparrow and forced him off the _Pearl_ without letting him retrieve his compass from the great cabin, and how he had laughed at Sparrow's urgent pleas to have it returned to him. He picked it up and opened it. Broken, of course – but he noticed that the needle pointed towards a familiar destination, which set him on a new train of thought.

Both reason and instinct told him that he must return to Tia Dalma; the outcome was always uncertain, though he had to admit that she was the only possible source of help. But what could he use to bargain with? He looked at the compass again. She had an inexplicable weakness for Sparrow, he recalled. And one never knew what would take her fancy. He put the compass in a pocket of his coat, and went out to the main deck.

"Bo'sun! Set a course for the Pantano!" he ordered sharply.

"Aye, captain!" came the reply. As Bo'sun began to shout the orders, the crew glanced at each other, silently speculating on the meaning of Barbossa's sudden decision. But they obeyed, and the _Pearl_ began to make way for the island of Cuba.

The fair weather held for the ten days it took to make passage to the Pantano, but the next day the summer heat was broken by rainfall that was torrential even by tropical standards.

Barbossa sat in Tia Dalma's parlour, listening to the pounding of the rain on her modest roof, as she gazed across the room at him with a mask-like expression, the compass on the table between them. Although lit by candles, the parlour was darker than usual, and the sound of the rain was hypnotic. Barbossa felt that he was drifting towards a dream-like state. His eyes rested upon the braid of hair still hanging near the loom, though he dared not mention it.

At last he spoke. "It be six years now," he said. "Six years without rest, food, companionship . . ." His words trailed off, and he moved his hand in a gesture that was almost an entreaty.

"We had fair winds fer a week," he went on, trying not to sound forlorn. "D'ye think I could feel one breath of 'em on me skin?"

Tia Dalma shrugged. "Yuh kin feel some t'ings," she said with a smile. "Jest nah dem dat yuh want."

 _So ye can smile at me,_ he thought, _when I be sufferin' the torments of hell._ Putting his palms on his knees, he leaned forward in his chair, and peered intently at her. "Six years o' nothin' but pain, anger, an' fear . . . not knowin' if I'll ever be free, or what might be waitin' fer me next." He took a deep breath.

"I need . . ," he paused a moment, ". . . hope. Can ye give me anything at all? Am I ever t' break the curse?"

"In time," Tia Dalma replied, glancing down at a pleat in her skirt and pinching it with her fingers. "Is dat all de question yuh come to ask me?"

"I've had no dreams for years now," he said, growing more agitated, "As well ye know. _Why?_ If the girl be dead, why not tell me?"

Tia Dalma's smile grew a little wider, and she shook her head.

"Well," Barbossa remarked, looking down at the floor to hide his disappointment, "If I'm not t' hope fer her, then why not another?" He looked quickly up at her to see how she received this. "Do ye have no affection fer me yerself? We both be 'immortal' now, if ye choose t' see it that way."

His bold proposition did not anger her, but made her laugh under her breath. "Nah, yuh not immortal," she assured him, "Yuh just an undead mortal."

She rose from her chair and beckoned him to follow her to the small window near her loom. They stood looking out at the swamp, barely visible through the streams of rain coursing down the glass.

"Did yuh ever ask yuhself why me left Davy Jones," she asked softly, "w'en me should have been wit' him? An' him heart break from it, poor mon."

Barbossa stole a look at her, but she turned him back to the window, and it seemed to him that he fell into a trance. As he stared at the water running down the panes, he no longer saw the Pantano; the scene before him resolved itself into a deep blue sea surrounding a small, perfect island.

"Have yuh never heard of dis island?" Tia Dalma asked, her voice whispering almost in his ear. "Dis beautiful jewel, Ogyria? On dis island lived an immortal woman, who brought 'er mortal love to live wit' her dere."

Barbossa watched as the view of the island changed and he saw a sandy shore behind which were perhaps half a dozen rock formations. Two figures stood face to face at water's edge: a man in ragged clothes, and a woman of unearthly beauty.

"Me found 'im," Tia Dalma's voice continued, "shipwrecked upon de wine-dark sea, an' gave him me heart, desirin' t' mek him me husband."

"Seven years him stay wit' me," she said. "An' dere was love between us. But anodder woman be waitin' all dat time, fait'ful to him memory. Him have a mortal wife: Penelope. An' her wait, not knowin' if him ever gwan return."

Barbossa was suddenly reminded of Solange standing on the shore, and he realised that she must likewise be waiting, hoping that Koehler would return to her.

"An' despite everyt'ing me give 'im," Tia Dalma said softly, "him spend each day on de shore, longin' for his home an' de mortal woman, pourin' out de sadness in tears, an' lookin' out over de sea dat divide 'em." As she spoke, Barbossa could see, as if looking toward the shore from the ocean, the ragged man staring out unhappily over the water.

When Tia Dalma continued, Barbossa noticed that she no longer spoke as if she were the woman in the story _. Perhaps,_ he thought, _t'is the pain. Love be a deal o' trouble, an' best avoided._

"One day," she told him, "De goddess who love dis man tell him dat if he knew how dangerous de voyage be, him would nah wish to set sail. Him would choose to stay wit' her an' be immortal."

Behind the man on the shore, one of the rock formations wavered, and brought forth the beautiful woman, who approached the man with tears in her eyes.

"Den her wept," Tia Dalma said in a strained voice. "An' ask if Penelope be more beautiful. Him said no – no mortal woman be more beautiful dan de goddess." After a moment, she added, "But den him say dat he gwan cross de wine-dark sea for her, even if him die. Now de goddess know dat him never belong to her. So her give him a ship to tek him home." The window had grown blurry with rain, and Barbossa could see no more images. He turned to Tia Dalma.

"Him sail back to de heart of his family," she said. "In time, him grow old, and come to de end of him mortal life. He never come back to Ogyria; de goddess don' see him again." She sighed. "He broke de goddess' heart. After dat, her nah be true to any mortal, nor show dem kindness."

Tia Dalma paused, and then slipped her hand into Barbossa's coat pocket. When she withdrew and opened her hand, he saw that she was holding the hairpin, "Mortal belong wit' mortal," she said sadly.

Barbossa wanted to protest, to say his fascination with the drowned girl was meaningless, but he was troubled by the thought that those desires might run much deeper than he could admit.

Tia Dalma dropped the hairpin back in his pocket, and touched his cheek. "I will help yuh ickle bit," she promised. "Me heart nyah made of iron."

The pleading look he gave her prompted her to warn him. "Yuh walkin' in de land of haunts an' illusions," she said, "in de midst of de wine-dark sea. An' yuh dreamin' what yuh want. Yuh t'ink because her be lovin' on yuh in a dream, dat mek it real, but it don'. Her only feared yuh – so much dat she t'row herself off de ship. Be content wit' yuh dreams."

"I could start afresh with her – begin again," Barbossa suggested.

Tia Dalma seemed to consider her words, but then shook her head. "Ye won't see her again in dis life," she said.

He reacted with a look of shock, even grief, and she tried to ease matters. "Don' fret so, dear mon. Everyt'ing nah be lost," she said, patting his shoulder. "Go back to de _Pearl_ , dear. Me gwan send yuh comfort against de hurt yuh feel."

He nodded and departed without a word, too shaken to think clearly, although he took a kind of dull notice that his leg was giving him more trouble than usual as he descended the steps from the small hut.

Back on the _Pearl_ , he thought of his first encounter with the girl, the jolt of attraction he felt as they sparred over some imagined insult – each one offended by the other. And now he knew he would not see her again, ever. That day, it had crossed his mind for an instant to tell her, _yer standin' too close,_ as she confronted him, and then to seize her and hold her tight, kissing her hard, until her legs buckled. _Should've done it,_ he thought. _Too late now._

He wondered idly what Tia Dalma would send to bring him comfort. It was very late when he noticed the first signs of drowsiness, but sleep overtook him swiftly, and his dream was everything he could have wished it to be.

It began with the _Black Pearl_ sailing in light winds on a bright, sunny day. He could smell the sea, and feel the warmth of the sun's rays as he crossed the main deck. Looking off to starboard, he saw that the water in which they were sailing was rich and dark. He reckoned that they were in the Mediterranean, and he accepted this without surprise.

He ascended the stairs to the quarterdeck, on his way to take the wheel. At the top of the steps, he saw Bo'sun and Twigg, who were staring ahead at the horizon. Then he noticed that everything was still.

"Why is she becalmed?" he asked Twigg, who was staring off into the distance.

"T'is the flowers," Twigg replied with disgust and annoyance.

"I'll see to 'em," he said. He descended to the main deck, and climbed down the ship's ladder to the waterline. But instead of finding the rich, blue waters he expected, he found that the _Pearl_ was surrounded by a rolling field of white flowers that looked almost identical, stretching away in all directions to the horizon.

He stepped off the ladder and began to walk away from the _Pearl_. The white flowers were slightly below the height of his knees and, as he walked, they melted away from his footsteps like the insubstantial dream-flowers that they were. He kept walking until the landscape around him was only the flowering field and the blue sky: he could no longer see the _Pearl_. He recalled a similar field near the village where he was born; the field where he had first lain with an older wench on a summer night under the full moon; she had endured his unskilful pawing, and succeeded in making a man of him that night. He chuckled at the memory.

Where were his steps taking him, he wondered. He seemed intent on doing something, but what it was, he could not say. Somehow, amidst the ocean of white petals, he recognised the place where he should stop. He thrust his arm down through the flowers and, just as he must have known, a gentle hand grasped his wrist. There was a slender form nestled under the flowers, her knees drawn up with her arm clasped round them, her head bowed and face turned away from him: it was Nina.

He pulled steadily upwards and she rose, nymph-like, from beneath the flowers, uncoiling herself, almost weightless, clad in nothing but her long hair. He felt his heart lurch as he embraced her.

They sank to their knees and kissed, but he looked at her youthfulness, thought of Sparrow, and suddenly felt uncertain. "I'm too old….," he started to say.

"There's nothing to fear," she murmured. "Nothing at all."

She kissed him and he nearly lost control of himself. "I mean t' have ye," he said as he clasped her against his body. "An' I won't let anything stop me." And he kissed her the way he had wanted to long ago, when they had quarrelled on the _Pearl_.

"But it leads through death," replied the nymph in his arms. He remembered afterwards how she had called him _my_ Hector, and kissed his ear where the shark's tooth hung from a golden wire.

"So bold," she whispered in his ear. "And so handsome." Then she confessed shyly, "I think you are the handsomest man in the world." Hearing this proof that she admired him, his heart melted. She reclined, inviting him, and he quickly pulled off his clothes.

They lay together in the field of flowers, which were smooth and satiny to the touch, and he felt the warmth of the sun as he surrendered to his passions. He allowed himself to feel all the emotions he could never express, loving her utterly and completely.

Later he tried to recall each moment they had shared. Did she straddle him, her body half-veiled by her long hair? He couldn't remember how long they had taken their pleasure before he entered her, but he remembered the heat of his desire, and the ecstasy of his satisfaction.

"Don't let me go – hold fast," he had said to her, unable to think, wanting to devour her, not knowing or caring what was happening to him.

"My heart is not made of iron," she had breathed softly, just before the dream ended.

He awoke from the dream feeling that she truly must love him. He was half-turned towards his pillow, and thought for a moment he could smell traces of attar and musk; she still seemed to surround him with her actual presence. He felt comforted and at peace.

Then he remembered her last words, and recalled that they were the words of Tia Dalma. _So it was all nothing,_ he thought _, only a fancy and the memory of the story of Odysseus._

For a moment, he allowed himself to contemplate what it would mean to him if Tia Dalma was right and his dreams meant nothing. He found he couldn't bear to face it; he felt the colour drain from his world. _She's drowned,_ he decided, banishing her name from his mind. _And ye can't miss what ye never had._

In Tortuga, the town was drying out from the same rains that had swept through the Pantano. The morning sun made the air humid and uncomfortable, except for the man asleep in the cool mud of the pigsty. As Joshamee Gibbs awakened, he checked his pockets for coins, and heaved a deep sigh – empty, every blasted one of them. He lay still for a short time, as the need for more sleep battled against the need for a drink, until sleep graciously yielded the victory to drink.

Mr Gibbs generally paid for his drinks with an entertaining yarn, and he cursed his luck at awakening so early; it was rare to find anyone in the taproom at this hour, much less anyone in the mood for a drink and a tall tale.

He was surprised, therefore, when the barman at the Faithful Bride gave him a sly look and beckoned him over. Leaning across the bar on one elbow, the man said, "That one's lookin' fer news of a ship with black sails. Give 'im one o' yer yarns, an' he'll buy ye a drink."

Mr Gibbs looked for his potential patron, but only saw a man who appeared to be sleeping it off in his chair, with his head upon the table and his arm protectively encircling a bottle of rum. The extravagance of his clothes told Gibbs that he was evidently a pirate, and likely a captain, but the man's long dreadlocks hid his face from view.

He started towards the man, trying to invent a likely tale that would win him a drink, when a startling realisation made him stop and take a sharp breath. A ship with black sails? He hadn't thought of her in years, but his last voyage on the _Dauntless_ had produced such an encounter. True, he had not seen the mysterious ship, but the governor's little daughter had told him all about it. He took a seat next to the sleeping man, coughing and scraping the chair to awaken him. The man lifted his head at the noise, sniffed at the aroma of the pigsty, and blinked sleepily at Gibbs.

"I'm told yer lookin' fer word of a ship—" Gibbs began, but the man raised a hand to forestall him.

"One . . . moment . . . if you would be so kind," the man said in a soft voice, slurring his words. He tented his palms together as if begging Gibbs' indulgence. Gibbs watched as the man staggered to his feet and walked out of the taproom with a peculiar, weaving gait, his elbows bent and hands waving as if he were dancing.

Gibbs exchanged a look with the barman, who shrugged and continued his work. Uncertain as to whether the man would return, Gibbs waited, taking the opportunity to verify that the bottle left on the table was empty.

He had just put the bottle back in its place, when a massive quantity of cold water crashed like a wave over his head.

"Mary, Mother o' God!" he sputtered, jumping up to shake the water out of his hair.

The man had returned unnoticed, and was placing an empty pail on the floor as he resumed his seat.

"That's better," he remarked, then offered his hand to Mr Gibbs. "Captain Jack Sparrow," he announced. "At your service, mate." He motioned to the barman, who sent a fresh bottle of rum to the table.

"I can tell ye somethin' o' the ship with black sails," said Gibbs, eyeing the bottle. Jack Sparrow narrowed his eyes and fixed them on Gibbs with a cat-like intensity.

"And how much can you tell me, I wonder?" he mused aloud. "This," he indicated the bottle, "is reserved for those who 'ave seen 'er and can describe 'er."

"I saw 'er m'self," said Gibbs, sinking his voice dramatically, "T'were four years ago, on me last voyage from Mother England. Black as night she was, an' flyin' pirate colours." Jack stared at him steadily.

"How many masts?" he said, testing his companion.

Gibbs locked eyes with Jack. "Two . . _three!_ " he said quickly. "I seen her plain as I see you sittin' here. Plain as I see that bottle," he added hopefully.

Jack poured him a drink. "Let's have it," he said. "From the beginning."

Gibbs took several swallows of rum, and told Jack the story: how the _Dauntless_ had discovered a ship from England, burning on the water in the midst of an unnatural fog. Attacked by the cursed pirates that everyone knew sailed those waters. No survivors, except one child. And how he, Gibbs, had seen the black ship sailing away in the fog.

"There she went," he said in an ominous voice, looking past Jack, as if he could still see the ship in his mind. "Her canvas naught but rags, an' that great, black pirate flag wavin' at the top of her mainmast." He waited for questions, but when they came, the questions seemed rather odd.

"Did you catch a glimpse of her crew?" Jack asked, frowning and studying the table.

"Nary a one," said Gibbs. "Might o' been crewed by ghosts, fer all ye could tell."

Jack gave him a keen look. "Odd, innit?" he said. "I mean, all the other ships she's attacked were sailin' from ports in the Indies. Why a ship from England, I wonder? D'ye think she might've been carryin' gold?" He put this last question casually, but Gibbs sensed its importance.

"Not by the time we found 'er," he said. "But if she were, the cursed pirates would've had it all off her by then, an' stowed aboard their ship."

"Not _their_ ship – _my_ ship," Jack corrected him.

Mr Gibbs paused, wondering if he'd heard right. "Beg pard'n?" he said.

"She's _my_ ship," Jack said again. "You've seen the _Black Pearl_ , mate, stolen from me by me mutinous crew, led by me traitorous first mate." He leaned forward. "Marooned me on a desert island, with this." He laid his pistol upon the table. "They left me one shot, an' I intend t' use it on the man who stole my ship. I'll have 'er back, or me name's not Captain Jack Sparrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no claim to any part of Pirates of the Caribbean. Original plots and characters are owned by me.
> 
> Next (not posted yet): The Pearl hunts for the last medallions, as Jack moves closer to reclaiming his ship.


	7. Perdition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Black Pearl hunts for the last of the medallions, and Jack Sparrow moves closer to reclaiming his ship.

General Luis de Guerrero, former Alcalde of La Havana, stood on the balcony of his villa in Santiago de Cuba looking out over the bay. The tranquil scenery was the perfect setting for an evening spent planning his triumphant return to Spain, after an ignominious flight from La Havana.

Guerrero had enriched himself for many years by collecting bribes and siphoning off modest amounts of gold from Spain's plate fleet. Much had to be abandoned when he departed the city in haste, but not all. He had brought with him a small wooden box with twenty-one identical medallions in it. No one else, including their former owners, knew their true worth. Guerrero, however, a student of history, recognised the priceless, legendary gold pieces. He had amassed his collection one piece at a time, through treachery, blackmail, and worse.

He was confident that his future would be assured when he reached Spain; however, being a cautious man, he had sent one medallion to be examined by his brother and an expert in antiquities in Madrid. He sipped from a glass of Madeira and the corners of his mouth curled into a smile. As soon as his brother replied, he would depart the Caribbean, bound for Spain.

At the very same moment when the general was enjoying his Madeira, Hector Barbossa was seated at the _Pearl's_ chart table in another part of the Caribbean Sea, absorbed in a different set of reflections. Over the last two years, the _Pearl_ had managed to capture and restore most of the remaining cursed gold, save for a mere twenty-two medallions. Barbossa gazed at the table, upon which lay two torn halves of a letter and one gold medallion – the only one to be recovered in the last six months. _And now we need but twenty-one more,_ he thought.

Their latest prize had been discovered by Maximo when searching the hold of a Spanish ship they had overtaken. Though his Spanish was quite poor, Barbossa had spent nearly an hour studying the torn letter, his naturally curious and suspicious nature prompting him to investigate further. At last, he strode to the door and shouted to Bo'sun, "Send Maximo."

In due course, Maximo tapped on the door and entered Barbossa's quarters, looking as if he wished to disappear behind his bushy, unkempt black beard. Barbossa fixed him with a piercing stare. "D'ye know why I summoned ye?" he asked.

Maximo swallowed nervously. "Because I tore the letter to get the gold out?" he mumbled into his beard. "Didn't mean t—" but Barbossa waved him off.

"Bein' from Cartagena, ye have some knowledge o' the Spanish tongue," he said, "An' I need t' know what be in this letter."

Maximo continued to look alarmed. "But I can't read it."

"No matter – I'll read an' ye can tell me what it means," Barbossa replied. He took up the letter and began to read haltingly, as Maximo translated.

When he got to the phrase _veinte más medallones_ , he heard Maximo catch his breath. "Twenty more!" Maximo exclaimed. "He has twenty more of them!"

"An' the last part," Barbossa replied. "Sue carta me leggeran _—"_ He paused and looked at Maximo.

Maximo had been on the verge of telling him that _llegarán_ was pronounced _"_ ye-ge-RAN _",_ but thought better of it. "Your letter will get t'me . . ." he offered.

_"_ En Santiago," Barbossa added. He looked at Maximo to confirm what he already guessed. Maximo seemed to be beside himself with joy.

"In Santiago!" he chortled excitedly. "He's in Santiago!"

Barbossa strode to the door, and shouted to Bo'sun. "Put on more canvas an' make way fer Santiago!" he ordered with a triumphant grin. Amid the hurried motions of her crew and the tumult of voices, the _Pearl_ changed course and began to sail for Santiago de Cuba.

On the other side of the Caribbean, Jack Sparrow was seated in Tia Dalma's parlour, obediently drinking from a steaming mugful of liquid almost the same shade of green as an alligator's hide. He forced a smile at his hostess. "Just the thing for me headache," he said to Tia Dalma. She accepted the compliment with a small, sweet smile.

"So yuh nah wan' de t'ing dat cure it forever?" she teased him.

"You mean rendering me soul t' Davy Jones, an' servin' on the Dutchman in payment of an ill-advised accord? Don't think so," Jack answered, drawing the corners of his mouth down.

"Yuh mek a bargain wit' him, Witty Jack. Time be runnin' out," she said.

"Not as soon as you think," Jack replied. "By my calculations, Jones owes me at least nine more years as captain of the _Pearl_. With things as they stand, that nine years is lookin' a bit distant, wouldn't you say?" He grinned, showing a bit of golden tooth.

"Oh, nah, dear," she reassured him, "De curse don' stop Davy Jones. Yuh have t' go wit' him soon."

Jack's smile faded. "Not before I kill a certain scrofulous old monkey-minder," he said, a determined gleam in his dark eyes.

"Yuh nah kyan kill 'im until him break de curse," Tia Dalma reminded him. "Barbossa still lookin for de last medallions."

"Aye, after eight years," Jack said. "Don't say much for him as a captain, eh?" he muttered. He frowned and lowered his eyelids. "Seems I'll need to deal with Jones, then."

The payment he had brought Tia Dalma lay heaped upon her parlour table: ten specimens of a rare and peculiar fruit she had desired from Brazil. Jack wasn't certain he'd received what he needed in return, but he peered keenly into Tia Dalma's eyes, and carefully repeated everything she had told him.

"So . . . if I find this key," he said thoughtfully, "and unlock whatever it goes to . . . I might have something of value with which to negotiate with the cephalopodinous Jones?"

Tia Dalma had listened with an air of amusement, and nodded her head. "Dat sound right," she said.

Jack narrowed his eyes. "So what's it look like, then?"

She smiled broadly. "Like de wan in de drawin' . . ."

". . . that I need to find . . ." Jack finished the sentence.

". . . dat yuh need to find . . ." she repeated.

". . . and a Turkish seaman in Santiago knows something about said drawing," Jack finished. He gave a quick glance up the stairs, in the direction of Nina's small bedroom. "An' you're willin' t' let her help me?" he asked.

She nodded. "Only wit' de language. Nottin' else."

"What else is there?" he asked. Then a sudden suspicion struck him. "What's in Santiago?"

Tia Dalma sighed and looked at her table. "Cursed gold. An' dem dat seek it. But him need more dan gold."

"Aye, I know," Jack said, waving his hand wearily. "All the blood repaid-"

Suddenly he paused and looked at her sharply. A knowing grin began to spread across his face. "Who is it?" he coaxed. "Y' can't fool me, darlin'. Whose blood 'asn't he got?"

She grinned coyly, swinging her hips slightly. "Me t'ought yuh would never ask," she said. And she explained briefly about Bootstrap, as Jack's eyes grew bright with interest.

"Where's the child – or the erstwhile child, I suppose?" he asked.

Tia Dalma shrugged. "Does it matter? W'en dey find de last piece, an' take Bootstrap's chile, dey will go to de cave. Dat be where yuh kyan find 'im an kill 'im – if yuh fast enough."

She put her hand in a hidden pocket of her skirt and extracted Jack's compass. "To find de way back dere, yuh gwan need dis. Now don' say me never did nothin' for yuh."

Jack stared in amazement. "They made me leave it on the _Pearl!_ " he exclaimed. "How did you-?" but the sound of footsteps rushing down the stairs interrupted him.

He turned to find Nina standing dumbstruck on the stair, gazing at him in joyful bewilderment.

"Hello, darlin'!" he greeted her cheerily. "By an amazin' coincidence, we was just speakin' about you! Fancy stepping out for a bit with Jack?"

So pleased was Nina at the return of her old friend, that she accepted Jack's offer without a single question as to where he might be taking her, or why. The two friends set out through the mountains on horseback and, after some hours, Jack admitted that their destination was Santiago. Nina darted a worried look at him.

"But Santiago is on the coast," she said.

"As always, you demonstrate an impressive grasp of geography, Brat," he replied, hoping to close the subject.

"Then why not go by sea?" Nina asked. The question made Jack edgy, not least because Nina often scrutinized his answers in a way that suggested skepticism.

"I know how you love horses, darlin'," he explained, "An' I thought the ride might be a treat for you." He smiled blankly, and Nina saw that, true or not, Jack was prepared to stick by his story.

That night, after they had made camp in the mountains, she delivered an ultimatum. "I see you play your cards closer to the vest than before," she told Jack, "But it's time to show your hand. Out with it – if you want my help!" Jack heaved a sigh and proceeded to explain.

"I need you to 'elp me find the drawin' of a certain key," Jack explained in a subdued voice, "All I need to know is what it looks like, where it is, and who's got charge of it. There's a mariner who may know something. He sails on the _Whydah_ , and every year he comes to Santiago and has his fortune told. I need you to tell his fortune and see if in the process you can glean any particulars about said object."

Nina frowned, thoroughly puzzled. "The _Whydah_? Rackham's ship?"

"That's the one, love. But the man we're looking for was born and bred in Bandirma and only speaks. . ."

"Turkish. Now I see," she said. "You need me because I can speak to him in Turkish." Then she shook her head and laughed under her breath. "It may end with nothing, you know," she warned, "But I shall try this for your sake. I can see you have some shadow following you that's even worse than losing the _Pearl_."

"I might not be the only one followed by a shadow," he replied gently and, as he expected, her face flushed and she turned away. _Still keepin' her secret,_ he thought sadly.

"Please put out the fire," she said, a bit too quickly. "The air is mild, and I'm not afraid of the ghosts in these mountains."

Jack put out the fire reluctantly, and stretched out on the other side of the embers. "Ghosts, you said?" he enquired.

"Don't tell me you're afraid of them, Jack," she sighed. "I've never known you to give a thought to that sort of thing."

"I suppose it's down to how much time you think you've got before you're no longer among the livin'," he mused, thinking of his bargain with Davy Jones. "Be nice if you were immortal, eh?"

"Not if you were Bootstrap," she said, suddenly tense. "Something awful has happened to him – I had a dream about it, and Tia Dalma all but told me it was true in so many words. He tried to fix it so Barbossa couldn't break the curse, and Barbossa threw him into the sea, tied to a cannon. And now, Bootstrap can't die; he's doomed to suffering without end, being crushed, not being able to breathe . . ." Then she added, "And there's more. He told Barbossa that my uncle would pay for my return – so he could kill me. Yes, there's a shadow following me, Jack."

"I'd heard Bootstrap's tale," Jack said with a sigh. "Didn't plan to fret you with it." As he lay down to sleep, he said the only thing he could think of to comfort her, "It'll all come right in the end, mouse. Just you wait and see. I'll kill the old robber before he can get his hands on you. I promise."

Late the next day, they arrived in Santiago, and Jack's venture went smoothly. He seated Nina in a corner of the local cantina, located the Turkish seaman without difficulty, and guided him to Nina's table.

"Ummm, gipsy telleee fortune," he explained, pointing at his own palm. "Readee handee, eh?" Nina rescued Jack from his language deficiency by holding out her palm with a confident, mysterious smile.

_"Merhaba,"_ she said to the seaman, the words rushing along in a soft, sibilant flow. _"Gümüş, lütfen, geleceğini anlatmak için . . ."_ The seaman grinned and reached into his pocket as Jack exhaled a sigh of relief.

"Brilliant, mouse," he said under his breath, and withdrew to the other side of the taproom. Moments later, he was jolted by the sound of cannons firing, and he knew before the first volley had ceasing echoing that the guns belonged to the _Pearl_.

He rushed back to the table. The seaman had passed out in the midst of having his fortune told, and Jack pulled Nina to her feet. "Time we were runnin' along, darlin'," he said. "By the sound of those guns, the _Pearl_ is firing on the port."

The two friends pushed their way through the crowd of hastily departing customers and, once outside, crouched down behind the seawall. Jack took a quick look through his pocket-glass and gave a low whistle.

"What d' ye know – some of the gold must be here! Now that's interesting! Ever seen a ship crewed by the damned?" He gave the glass to Nina, who stared through it, terrified at the ghoulish vision of the _Pearl_ in the harbour.

A moment later, the seawall nearby was breached by a cannon shot, and Nina dropped the glass and ran wildly up the hill towards Santiago's fortress. Jack caught her, and pulled her into to a hiding place. "They're lookin' for the gold; it's calling 'em," he said. "They don't know we're here. Just you sit tight and they'll be off soon enough."

Jack's words proved true. The cannons soon grew quiet, and the mysterious ship was no longer seen in the harbour; the _Pearl_ had heard the gold call from one of the small islands in the mouth of the Santiago River.

Guerrero had lost no time when the Pearl began to cannonade the town. Thinking that the ship must be one sent from Havana to capture him, he had taken the coins and departed on a small sloop, hoping to evade them in the dark. He had reached a small island, and was kneeling behind some low bushes peering back at Santiago, when he suddenly felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Ev'nin'," said a voice behind him in English. Guerrero turned to see a tall, heavily armed man standing behind him and, further back, a group of probably ten more men. In a pleasant voice, the man continued, "I think ye have somethin' of ours." And thus, the last sight Guerrero ever saw was the man drawing his sword, as the moon came out from behind a cloud and revealed the faces of the ghouls that surrounded him.

The crew of the _Black Pearl_ was jubilant when Barbossa returned with the twenty medallions, and great cheers went up, one after another. He acknowledged their praise, and ordered a course set for Isla de Muerta, but later in his cabin, more than one thought weighed heavily upon him.

There was only a single medallion missing now, and only the blood of one man remaining to be repaid. Despite every attempt to find an alternative, he came back to the same conclusion: they needed to go to Rotherhithe, to the last place where Bootstrap might have sent his gold. Barbossa would not allow himself to think beyond that; the gold had to be there, he thought, along with Bootstrap's child.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture Bootstrap's child, without success. No one on the _Pearl_ could remember if Bootstrap had said he was father to a boy or a girl. Ragetti, when questioned, had only said, "Dunno – I s'pose Cap'n Sparrow might've known," which had irritated Barbossa. He sighed and opened his eyes once more; they would simply have to hope there was some trace left of Bootstrap's family in Rotherhithe.

Then Barbossa found his mind turning to the evening's raid on Santiago, and the odd premonition he had felt. As the cannons fired, he was suddenly certain that the drowned girl was there, watching him. The feeling was so strong that he had turned his glass towards the shore where he thought she was standing, but of course there was no sight of her. All he had seen were two ghostly figures sprinting up the hill towards the fortress.

He calculated that he had spent more than two years without sleep, and hoped that Tia Dalma might spare him another night's sleep soon; and at the back of his mind was the hope that sleep would bring another pleasant dream. However, the _Pearl_ ferried the gold to the cave, and set out for England with no respite for her captain.

The closer they came to Land's End, the more Barbossa felt he was on the wrong track, but there was no other course open to them. His mood became grimmer and darker, but he persisted; when he sighted the Lizard, he gave orders to bear off to the southeast, and thus the Pearl sailed through the waters of the English Channel, and arrived at the mouth of the Thames. Hidden within the supernatural fog that always accompanied her, she made her way up the river, and lay by near Rotherhithe, behind a small island that served to screen her from view.

Which crew member it would be best to send ashore was a matter of some thoughtful calculation for Barbossa. Ragetti had some familiarity with the area, but it would take a much cleverer liar than Ragetti to dig information out of Rotherhithe's inhabitants. They were a hardened, suspicious, transient lot, with many a secret of their own to keep. He decided that Mallot was the man for the job, but he would also send Ragetti to lead Mallot through the crooked little streets.

To make their arrival inconspicuous, Barbossa watched for an opportunity to seize one of the many wherries that rowed passengers back and forth across the river. Late that night, he was able to take a wherry without any fuss, and dispatch the oarsman and his passenger.

Mallot and Ragetti donned the victims' clothing, and plied the oars for Rotherhithe, where Ragetti directed Mallot to the Three Mariners' Stairs. They tied up the wherry at the stone steps, and moved like shadows into the streets of Rotherhithe.

Ragetti led Mallot to East Lane, and the two pirates scoured the neighbourhood, from Nutkins Corners to Rope Walk, but neither could hear the faintest trace of the familiar hum that would betray the presence of the last medallion. Even when they ventured to enquire of a few passers-by, none had ever heard of anyone named Turner.

At last, Mallot set out for the nearest public house with Ragetti following in his wake.

They entered the taproom of The Salutation, and Mallot engaged the barkeep in conversation. The man had noticed that Mallot did not drink from the tankard he had ordered, and Mallot assured him that it was only because an obligation lay heavily on his mind – he was only in Rotherhithe to fulfil a promise to an old messmate, William Turner.

According to Mallot, the two of them had been captured and imprisoned in the Indies by the Spanish, and Turner had died in their cell. However, his friend had begged Mallot that, if he ever got out alive, he would take money to Turner's widow in Rotherhithe.

"I won't rest 'til I find 'er," he told the barkeep, which was certainly true. "An' me poor ol' mate was too delirious wiv fever t' tell me 'er given name – I only knows 'er as the Widder Turner."

The barkeep shook his head. "Never 'eard o' William nor 'is missus," he said.

Mallot showed genuine disappointment at this, but the barkeep turned and called out to a woman sitting in a far corner. "Oi, Mary! Did ye ever 'ear of a Mrs Turner? 'Usband was a seaman who died in the Indies?" Tapping Mallot on the arm, the barkeep muttered, "She'll know, if anyone does."

Mallot and Ragetti approached Mary, a bright-eyed old crone sitting at a small table with a glass of gin in front of her. "That'd be Margaret Turner," she told Mallot. "She's been dead an' gone these eight years."

"You sure?" asked Mallot, motioning to the barkeep to give Mary another tot of gin. Mary acknowledged this courtesy with a nod, and continued.

"I only knows about 'er because I used to 'ave a word with 'er landlady – that were Dora Shadderly – about the debts she left behind. Dora was quite tore up about it – not a farthing did she find once that woman died. She'd 'ave welcomed you an' no mistake, if you 'ad anything from Turner to pay 'is wife's debts."

"Well, p'raps I could do something," offered Mallot. "Where might I find Dora Shadderly?"

"Dead, like 'er tenant," said Mary with a shrug.

"And . . . were there any little Turners?" Mallot asked as Ragetti held his breath and leaned closer to Mary. But the question seemed to throw Mary into some doubt.

"Dunno," she replied. "Might've been one, but I don't recall." She waved her hand in a gesture that was meant to indicate the neighbouring streets. "You know 'ow they are – roamin' the streets, wild as cats. Who knows who they belong to? But any Turners are long gone."

Mallot assumed a look of resignation. "That's a shame, that is," he said, shaking his head. "I laid a wager wiv one of me mates that if Old Bill 'ad any heirs, I could track 'em down. Wagered a sovereign." He appeared not to notice Mary's eyes grow wide. "S'pose I'll 'ave t' pay 'im now," he said with a rueful smile at Mary. "I'd rather 'ave given you the coin an' found Old Bill's child." He began to rise from the table when Mary stopped him.

"Wait," she said. "I've just remembered something." Mallot slid back into his chair, and withdrew a sovereign from his pocket which he placed upon the table. Mary's eyes fixed upon the coin as she revealed the only information she possessed.

"Dora said she 'ad the child sign an indenture paper, an' sold it to a sea cap'n. She made a bit back on that, an' the child sailed from England when the mother died. That's all I know." She eyed the coin and Mallot expectantly.

"Bound for America? The East Indies? Barbados? D'ye know the child's name? Did Turner 'ave a son or a daughter?" asked Mallot. Mary shook her head.

"She didn't say nuthink about any of that." She raised her eyebrows and gazed down at the sovereign. Mallot became aware that the barkeep and two other customers were watching. He pushed the coin towards her.

"Fair enough, mother; much obliged t' ye," he said.

The two pirates rowed back to the _Pearl_ in silence, each one pondering how they would ever find this child, when the only facts they had established were that a young person whose surname was Turner had departed London on a sailing ship eight years ago, destination unknown.

Barbossa listened to Mallot's report with a grim expression and condemned himself bitterly for not seeking out Bootstrap's family the moment he knew it might be necessary. Now all was lost: the gold had gone, and Bootstrap's heir with it.

When Mallot and Ragetti departed, Barbossa stared at the map lying on his chart table, and then suddenly crushed it in his hand. _Now we be lost forever_ , he thought. After a moment, he recollected the word: perdition. Lost forever, damned to this existence forever. Contrary to what he would have imagined, the feeling that he was eternally captive in hell was unexpectedly numbing, in the sense that he found himself incapable of taking action or making a decision. _We can't stop in the Thames 'til the last trumpet sounds,_ he finally concluded. But as he stood up and walked out to the deck, he felt as if he were carrying a dead man on his back. _An' perhaps I am,_ he thought.

Once on deck, he spoke to Bo'sun and the men nearby were alarmed at the flatness of his tone. "Weigh anchor," he said. "You call the orders; take us out." And he remained standing where he was, as Bo'sun began to shout a continuous stream of orders, and the men moved smartly to carry them out. In short order, the _Pearl_ had hauled up her anchor, unfurled her great black sails and, slowly at first, began to move as the wind filled her canvas. Barbossa listened to the sounds; the heavy billowing of the luffing sails, the sound they made when they caught the wind and snapped taut, the creak of the _Pearl's_ timbers as her masts and yards strained against the pressure of her sails.

For a few moments, his mind went back to the day when he had first wrested the ship from Sparrow's command, and he remembered his pride and delight in being captain of the fine vessel that he loved. Then the last rays of the setting moon strayed across the _Pearl's_ rigging, and he saw the tattered remnants of her sails fluttering in the night breeze. _I've ruined the Pearl as well,_ he thought.

He turned to Ragetti, and said, "I want the red gown put back in the hold."

Ragetti and Pintel exchanged a quick glance and Ragetti answered, "Aye, Cap'n." Barbossa turned away without another word, and departed for his quarters.

* * *

Next (not posted yet): After ten years of torment, victory is finally in reach for Barbossa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean. The original characters and plots are owned by me.


	8. The Child of Bootstrap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After ten years of agony, the last medallion is found, and a young woman is captured who may be Bootstrap's heir.

"Mackerel scales, furl your sails," Joshamee Gibbs muttered, slumbering peacefully in the pigsty near The Faithful Bride. Something, perhaps the low, rolling growl of distant thunder out on the water, must have disturbed his dream enough to call forth the old proverb. He was dreaming of his days on the _Dauntless_ , specifically, the day they had discovered the burning wreckage of a merchantman, sunk – Mr Gibbs was certain – by merciless pirates. He was explaining this to an enormous bottle of rum that was wearing Norrington's wig, when suddenly the spray from an ocean wave leapt over the _Dauntless'_ rail and blew into his face.

" _Blast!_ " he yelled, and awoke to a grey, squally morning of wind and rain sweeping across Tortuga. The spray of water was genuine and continued to be blown through the open door of the shed, driven by winds gusting at no less than twenty-five knots.

"Curse the foul morn that robs a man of his rest," he swore. He staggered to his feet and walked through the storm to find shelter at The Faithful Bride. The short walk soaked him to the skin, and as he entered the taproom, rain streamed from his clothes and left a trail of puddles in his wake. Spying an old acquaintance observing him from a corner, Mr Gibbs took a seat at the same table, wiping down his face and hair as he joined his friend, Jack Sparrow.

"Been bathin', Mr Gibbs? You want t' watch that – nasty habit," remarked Jack with a smirk.

"Drenched, more like," Mr Gibbs replied. "An' grateful for a place t' dry out."

Jack cocked an eyebrow. "Well, I shouldn't dry out too quick, if you take me meaning." He poured out a tot from the rum bottle in his hand and set the tankard before Gibbs.

"Ah, bless ye for a Christian," Gibbs said, downing the drink at once. Jack motioned to the barman to send over another tankard and bottle. As the two friends refreshed themselves, Jack glanced at Gibbs out of the corner of his half-closed eyes, and enquired after the matter that was always uppermost in his mind.

"Any recent word of me ship?" he asked.

Gibbs shook his head. "From the little I've heard, she's spoken of as a legend now. No more real than the Kraken is," he chuckled.

Jack's face turned a shade paler than usual, but he only said, "She's real enough, mate."

"Oh, I don't deny it," Gibbs said quickly, "but she's not been seen like before, an' she never makes port – that anyone knows of. Now an' then a lookout catches a glimpse of her, but 'tis mostly tales these days. If she's preyin' on ships, she's not leavin' any survivors."

Jack gritted his teeth. "Bloody Barbossa couldn't find 'is arse with both 'ands," he said. "I'm nearly out of time and 'e still can't find . . ." Jack's words trailed off, and he sat quietly turning something over in his mind as Gibbs added a bit more rum to his tankard.

At last, with a sigh, Jack said, "He's still after something. The gold, the blood . . . or both." He leaned back in his chair and propped his boots on the table. "Ten bloody years," he muttered disgustedly.

"I were dreamin' last night o' the day the _Dauntless_ crossed paths with 'em," mused Gibbs. "Pack o' bloodthirsty rogues. Only survivor was that half-dead, spindly little lad." Jack gave him an interested look.

"But I recall you said he hadn't got any gold," he said.

"He only had the rags on his poor, shiverin' back," Mr Gibbs replied.

"Then he's not the one," Jack continued, almost to himself. "If he were, he'd have had the gold. If he'd had the gold, they would have found it. An' if they'd found it, they would have taken him, too. Q.E.D. Unless they knew he wasn't the child of Bootstrap. Surely they asked his name?"

He glanced at Gibbs. "On the other hand, _someone_ on that ship must have had a medallion – Barbossa always knows where to attack." He was silent for several minutes, frowning and deep in thought. Then he asked offhandedly, "Remember anything more about the lad? What was 'is name? What did he look like?"

"Like a drowned rat," said Gibbs. "He had no name that I ever heard. Once they took him off in Port Royal, I never saw him again. Went to his family, I reckon; that's if he had any."

"Perhaps I'll ask if anyone remembers him," Jack mused. "As it happens, I've got me eye on a nice little vessel that the Royal Navy's keepin' for me in Port Royal." He took his boot heels off the table. "I'll need a fast ship to chase the _Pearl_ when I find out where she is. Precious little else I can do."

"Give me regards t' the Royal Navy," replied Gibbs, raising his mug. "Bad cess to 'em."

Several weeks passed before Jack arrived in Port Royal with Joshamee's regards, but it proved to be a memorable day. The town buzzed with gossip from one end to the other: James Norrington had just been made Commodore in a magnificent ceremony, Governor Swann's daughter had nearly fallen to her death (or nearly drowned, depending on who told the story, Murtogg or Mullroy), and a dangerous pirate was singlehandedly captured by the drunken blacksmith and would surely be hanged in a day or so. By sunset, most of the town's inhabitants had seen quite enough excitement, and looked forward to a quiet, balmy night.

No one could have known that when Elizabeth Swann had plummeted into the bay that morning, she was wearing the last cursed medallion, and that the gold had sent out a great throb like a silent cry, which sped through the ocean in all directions. Almost one hundred miles away, every man on the _Pearl_ heard that sound rush towards them, passing through the _Pearl_ and her crew like the shock wave from a gigantic explosion.

Ragetti and three others hurried down from the main topgallant yard, almost falling. Chaos erupted on the main deck, and men rushed about, shouting excitedly. Barbossa had been standing on the quarterdeck and his initial look of stunned disbelief quickly changed to one of fiery eagerness.

"Bear off ten points t' larboard! Look alive, ye cockroaches! _NOW!_ " he roared, pointing his arm in the direction of the gold's call. Then he hurried to his quarters to read his charts and find where their heading was taking them. When he reappeared, everyone could see that his old confidence had returned.

"Tis Port Royal," he shouted to the crew. "Less than a hundred miles. We'll be payin' her a visit tonight, gents." A great shout of joy went up from the crew, and Barbossa returned to the great cabin to plan a raid on the former capital of Jamaica.

He considered the size of Port Royal, and the naval garrison that defended her, and decided that his best strategy would be to sow confusion and disorder. They would reach the town late in the evening, and he would cannonade the harbour whilst the crew – as many men as he could possibly spare – made for shore in every available longboat. He would instruct them to fan out, threatening and attacking everywhere at once, so that it would be difficult to contain them or discover their purpose, and impossible to kill them. It would seem to Port Royal as if an army of pirates had appeared in their streets.

In the meantime, he would assign one particular team to capture the prize he truly sought.

Just after sunset, he called Pintel and Ragetti to his quarters and ordered them to find the medallion. "The gold'll guide ye, just like before," he explained. "And if ye find it in the hands of a lad or lass between sixteen and twenty years, I want 'em brought to the ship, alive! If ye find it elsewhere, I want t' know what happened to the child."

The attack went off as planned, with the _Pearl's_ guns stampeding the town into chaos as the pirates burned, plundered and destroyed everything in their path. By the time Pintel and Ragetti returned, the ship's deck was heaped with swag, and the crew was busy sorting and stowing it.

Barbossa was standing above them on the quarterdeck, surveying the work below. Had he been amongst the crew on the main deck, Twigg and Koehler might have approached him with a bit of unwelcome news; they had both seen Jack Sparrow, alive and well in the town's gaol. As it was, they were kept busy dealing with Bo'sun's orders, and the matter soon slipped their minds.

As Pintel and Ragetti climbed aboard, Barbossa was surprised to see that they had brought a pretty, fresh-faced young lass in her nightclothes. There was no doubt, however, that the sound of the gold was coming from the spot where she stood. Barbossa started to descend from the quarterdeck, keen to discover her identity.

The little wench had started chattering something about parley the moment she set foot on the _Pearl's_ deck, and Bo'sun responded by giving her the back of his hand. Barbossa was there in an instant, seizing the man's wrist in a muscular grip that was surprisingly strong for a man of his years and build.

"And ye not lay a hand on those under the protection of parley," he ordered Bo'sun, before turning to the girl with a gentlemanly apology. _No sense in frightening her,_ he thought, eyeing the gold chain around her neck.

"Captain Barbossa," she replied at once, "I am here to negotiate the cessation of hostilities against Port Royal."

_Well spoken, for the daughter of a sea dog_ , he mused, _and bold as brass. Perhaps she's nothing to Turner, and came by the medallion some other way?_ But he could scarcely keep his eyes from the front of her gown, where he knew the medallion lay between her breasts. With an effort, he looked her in the face and said, "There are a lot of long words in there, Miss; we're naught but humble pirates. What is it that you want?"

"I want you to leave and never come back," she exclaimed, with all the earnestness of her young years. There was a rumble of laughter from the crew, and Barbossa decided to put the little maid squarely in her place.

"I'm disinclined to acquiesce to your request," he said with an amused smile, then added condescendingly, "Means _no_." Instantly, her face hardened with determination, and she snatched the chain from her neck.

"Very well," she said, holding the medallion over the railing. "I'll drop it." _She knows something – but what?_ thought Barbossa.

He spread his arms, gesturing for his crew to be calm. "Me holds are burstin' with swag," he declared, with a contemptuous look at the medallion. "That bit of shine matters to us? Why?"

The girl looked surprised and dismayed. "It's what you've been searching for," she replied. "I recognized the ship. I saw it eight years ago on the crossing from England."

Her revelation stunned Barbossa; the ship crossing from England—could it have been the very one they had learned of in Rotherhithe? The ship that counted the child of Bootstrap among its passengers?

"Did ya, now?" he finally managed to say.

"Fine," she said, calling his bluff. "Well, I suppose if it is worthless then there's no point in me keeping it." As it slipped down from her hand, the crew gasped and lunged at her. She tightened her grip on the chain and gave him a victorious smirk.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, forcing himself to smile. _Very sly, Missy,_ he thought, _but I'll have the story out of you before we get much further._ "You have a name, Missy?" he asked.

"Elizabeth Turner," she answered with a slight hesitation. "I'm a maid in the Governor's household."

Barbossa's eyes widened and he turned from the girl to his crew, wanting everyone to appreciate the importance of this moment. "Miss _Turner_ …," he repeated slowly. When he faced her again, she did not appear to have noticed how the crew's faces had changed, how they gazed at her like a pack of hungry animals, ready to pounce.

Barbossa smiled inwardly; perhaps she thought they were bewitched by her looks, but all of them, himself included, realised that they were in the presence of the key to their release. _By the powers,_ he thought, _before me stands the difference between the living world and damnation._

Hoping to hear that her father had left her the medallion, he asked: "And how does a maid come to own a trinket such as that. Family heirloom, perhaps?"

She mistook his tone for sarcasm, and bristled at the implication. "I didn't steal it, if that's what you mean," she snapped.

As she replied, Barbossa glanced towards the shore, and determined by the soldiers boarding long boats that the _Pearl_ had overstayed her welcome. "Very well," he said abruptly. "You hand it over and we'll put your town to our rudder and ne'er return." He held out his hand and fixed her with a stony look.

After a momentary pause, Turner's daughter surrendered the gold coin, which Barbossa handed to Jack the monkey for safekeeping. _More sense than her father, I see,_ he mused, and found that he was still angry at Bootstrap. With a perfunctory nod at Bo'sun, he walked away, making for the quarterdeck.

Miss Turner followed him, protesting. "Wait! You have to take me to shore. According to the Code of the Order of the Brethren –" she began.

Barbossa whipped around to face her; the game was over, and he had no intention of being lectured by another Turner. _Every one o' them mad for the Code,_ he thought.

"First," he retorted in his loud, gravelly voice, "your return to shore was not part of our negotiations nor our agreement so I must do nothing. And secondly, you must be a pirate for the pirate's code to apply and you're not. And thirdly, the code is more what you'd call "guidelines" than actual rules. Welcome aboard the _Black Pearl_ , Miss Turner." And he turned away, as Pintel and Ragetti seized Miss Turner and forced her into the great cabin.

"But I gave you the trinket!" she called out as they pushed her into the room.

"Now poppet," Pintel said in a soothing tone that set her teeth on edge. "You might say, you're our guest for now." Ragetti nodded vigorously, and his companion went on. "Cap'n ain't lockin' you in the brig – 'e's givin' you the use of the great cabin, wot's properly his own, including the sleeping quarters," he added, unable to suppress a leer. Elizabeth clutched at her neckline and grew pale; but the two pirates had already retreated to the door.

"You'll be locked in," said Pintel as they departed. "For your own good. Pleasant dreams, poppet."

For a few minutes after the door had closed, Elizabeth stood still in the centre of the room. Then she rushed to the door and tried to open it. She banged on it, pushed at it, twisted the handles, and shouted, all to no avail; she might have been alone on the ship for all the response she got.

Then it occurred to her that she might find a weapon in the cabin, and fight her way out when her captors returned. She searched through cabinets, chests, shelves, and drawers, but no weapon did she find.

Glancing around her, she spied a rucksack in one corner, and opened it. At first, she was elated to discover that it contained, among other items, two fine pistols. Holding one in both hands, she carefully pressed on the hammer until she heard it click into the cocked position. But then she noticed that something was different; unlike the pistol carried by James Norrington – unlike those carried by any soldiers she had seen – there was no flint in the hammer. She quickly looked at the other pistol, and found the same problem. The flints had been extracted so the pistols could not be fired.

She glanced at the other contents of the sack, and noticed an oval miniature of a gentleman, set on a ribbon such as a lady would wear about her neck. The ribbon had been cut through instead of untied, and Elizabeth felt a ripple of fear run through her. She replaced all the items in the sack and pushed it back into the corner.

Finally, she opened the door to the sleeping quarters, which looked as though no one had ever slept there. As she stood in the doorway, she was aware of a peculiar and unpleasant scent. Unable to identify it exactly, she nonetheless associated it with a butcher's shop, or tainted meat of some sort. It was just bearable in the day room, but here it made her gorge rise. She backed out of the door, and curled up on the settle in the day room under the windows. Leaving every candle burning, she lay uncomfortably, wondering how she had come from her safe, warm bed and beloved home to this nightmarish situation in just a few short hours.

Her thoughts were filled with images of Will and of her father; and gradually a lump of sadness formed in her throat. _I shan't give up,_ she promised them. _I shall make them restore me to you._ _There must be a way._ And she cudgelled her brain for hours, trying to think what that way might be, until just before dawn, when exhaustion at last overcame her and she slept.

It was afternoon when she awoke, and at first she thought she was still dreaming. The hard cushion under her and the sounds of the ship under sail would, she hoped, resolve themselves into the familiar surroundings of home. At last, she sat up and gazed about at the great cabin, recalling the events of the previous night.

She pressed her hand against the window pane and stared out at the wide, featureless ocean. Her only comfort was the hope that, even now, her father or Norrington must be chasing the _Pearl_ , and would soon free her from her captors. Then she thought of the pain this must be causing her father. What might have been their last day together had been spoilt by her obstinate refusal to accept Norrington's proposal, and this made her terribly sad. She blinked her eyes and swallowed hard.

"Ah, now, missy, be that a tear yer sheddin'?" said a voice from across the room. With a frightened gasp, she turned to see Captain Barbossa standing just inside the door, which he had closed quietly behind him. He smiled in a way that was meant to be friendly, but the insincerity of it made her dread his motives. "Don't weep, Miss Turner," he growled. "Ye needn't be so frightened."

Elizabeth was immediately indignant. "People weep for reasons other than fear," she declared, quickly wiping her face. "Grief for their loved ones, pain at being parted from them . . ."

"An' which is it for ye?" he asked. He sat in a chair across the room, clearly to avoid alarming her. "Why be ye in such haste t' be put ashore? D' ye have a young man?"

Something about his manner made her reluctant to give him any information, whether true or false, and she stared down at her hands where they lay in her lap.

Barbossa studied her in silence, trying to guess at her figure under the heavy fabric of her nightgown. A pretty maid she was, and one not accustomed to hard work, he thought. Perhaps a lady's maid, or even the mistress of the governor himself? She was certainly young and beautiful enough; and he began to consider what sort of a bride she might make for him: an elegant, aristocratic prize to be envied by other pirates – she might pass for a duchess, he thought.

"Surely yer not missin' yer cot in the governor's house?" he asked. "Ye be fit for finer things than that." He indicated the day room with a wave of his hand. "Look about ye: everything ye see was made specially fer the _Pearl_. All her furnishings be mahogany or ebony! The cushions be covered in French tapestry, the rugs be the finest in Persia." He paused, then added, "And ye'll find I can be nice enough." He knew he had spoken too soon when he saw her frosty look.

"Nice enough?" she repeated. "Then take me home."

He sighed, and ventured on a different subject. "I knew yer father," he said. "I knew Bill Turner."

He watched as her eyes widened, but he mistook the reason. "I've been lookin' fer his child for many years, not knowin' if I was seekin' a son or a daughter." He smiled. "But I was lookin' fer you, Miss Turner. An' now I've found ye."

It was on the tip of Elizabeth's tongue to deny the relationship, to tell him that she was the daughter of the governor, but caution stopped her. They had wanted Will's medallion, and by the sound of it, they also wanted Will. Were they seeking revenge on him or his father? She was determined to learn the purpose for all this.

"Why?" she asked. "Why were you looking for me?"

Barbossa grinned, showing dirty yellow teeth, some of which were adorned with gold and silver fillings. "Ah, well, that be a tale I'll share with ye later," he said. He stood up and regarded her for a moment. "That much I can promise ye," he added. Then he left the day room, locking her in once more.

Standing on the _Pearl's_ quarterdeck, Barbossa only half heard the routine noise and commotion of the crew at their work. His thoughts were concentrated on Elizabeth Turner. He decided he would woo the lovely Miss Turner and win her over; and when the curse was lifted with a sprinkling of her blood, he would keep her and she would cure him from thinking of the drowned girl.

He tried to think what sort of food was best for a sumptuous dinner, what wines she would like to drink, and how many candles would be needed to set the proper mood. And he decided that Miss Turner would wear the red gown.

* * *

Next (not posted yet): Barbossa's dinner has a dramatic conclusion, the medallion is taken, and Jack Sparrow returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean. Original plots are characters are owned by me.


	9. You Know Nothing of Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbossa has made plans, starting with a sumptuous supper. But his own appetite may be his undoing, as the Pearl nears the pirate cave.

 

 _This little wench won't get away,_ Barbossa thought confidently, as he stood on the quarterdeck making plans for Miss Turner. Her inability to escape was fundamental to all his reckoning. The drowned girl had been able to free herself and jump ship (albeit to her doom) before he returned to force his attentions on her. As he saw it, therein lay the problem. You could never be sure of wenches who could escape: they might suddenly overthrow your control and upset your plans.

On the other hand, he reasoned, he could take his time with Miss Turner. There was no need to worry over wenches who were well and truly trapped; you could force them to do what you wanted whenever you liked. Barbossa smiled to himself as he thought about the next two days. He could take Miss Turner at any time of his choosing, but he had decided to wait until he was free of the curse, and could fully enjoy his dainty prize, with or without her consent. However, there was something he wished to do with her immediately, something she had to do voluntarily.

He wanted to see her eat.

It was for this reason that he had kept Miss Turner hungry all day. Then he had ordered Turnspittle, who had not cooked in ten years, to prepare a magnificent, tempting supper. It amused Barbossa to think of the luxurious setting and poor, hungry little Miss Turner in her pretty gown, watching the food being piled high upon her plate. And once the table was laid, oh, what pleasures awaited him!

He closed his eyes and imagined watching her. She would hungrily devour all sorts of food, her mouth watering. She would close her eyes and swallow, lick her fingers, sighing and perhaps even moaning with satisfaction at the delicious tastes and aromas. And then? Then he would offer her an apple, as fresh as the maid herself, and watch as she . . .

"Beg pardon, Cap'n – Turnspittle's ready," announced Ragetti, close at hand. Barbossa's eyes flew open and he made his way down from the quarterdeck.

Once in the galley, he inspected each dish Turnspittle had prepared, which made the cook's hands shake so that he almost dropped a carving knife on his foot. Although forced to judge the food solely by its appearance, Barbossa felt sure that Miss Turner would be impressed and her appetite stimulated to a high degree. At last, to Turnspittle's relief, his captain assembled several crew members, and the dishes were carried away to the great cabin.

As the pirates crossed the main deck, the moonlight's reflection imparted a blue lustre to the eerie procession of five skeletal ghouls carrying large dishes of rich food to the doors of the main cabin.

Barbossa reached the doors first, and stepped into the shadows, regaining his enfleshed appearance. Carefully, so that she would not glimpse their true nature, he led the pirates into Miss Turner's presence. As they began lighting the fine wax candles and laying out the supper, he took pains overseeing the exact placement of each dish.

Then he looked up at Miss Turner, who was standing some distance away. She was wearing the red gown, which looked magnificent on her. _By the powers, even a lady's maid in London wouldn't have so rich a gown unless she stole it from her mistress_ , he thought; and he half expected her to thank him.

But Miss Turner's mien was stiff and formal, and her eyes distant as she gazed back at him. "Suits ye," he grunted, eyeing her from head to toe.

She did not reply, but maintained a dignified silence.

After a slight hesitation as he weighed the question of which arm to offer, he extended his right elbow and steered her to a seat. He took the chair to her right, moved it closer to her, and smiled as he saw the way she looked at the heaping plates of food.

"Apologies fer not feedin' ye sooner, Miss Turner," he purred. "I hope ye find this humble fare t' yer likin'."

Miss Turner stared at her plate, then her eyes moved towards the spot where there should have been another place laid. "Are you not dining?" she asked, finally looking at him.

"Later," he replied. "You first." There was an uncomfortable pause, and Elizabeth shifted her eyes away once more.

Then she picked up her cutlery and sliced off a small square of meat.

Barbossa held his breath as he watched. His eyes followed the fork being lifted slowly to her lips, trying to imagine the sensation. When she popped the juicy morsel into her mouth and bit down on it, he felt a thrill rush through his body, as though he were reacting to a woman's touch, and he could not suppress an audible gasp of excitement.

The shock of this experience was intoxicating, and he was overwhelmed with the need for a more intense encounter. He had pictured Miss Turner giving in to hunger and eating with greedy abandon; now it became imperative that he see her do this.

"There's no need to stand on ceremony," he said softly, as his desire became almost uncontrollable, "nor call to impress anyone. You must be hungry." He smiled to conceal the urgency of his need.

And perhaps, he thought later, as he stood on the quarterdeck, that had been the point where it all began to go wrong. He had to acknowledge that the sharpness of his appetite had overthrown his better judgement. Although the plan had been to persuade Miss Turner to eat without disclosing his motive, he had pressed her too hard, and the dinner had ended badly.

At first, he had tried to play the gentleman. But he hadn't the patience to go slowly, and had offered so many dishes to her that she stopped eating altogether, fearing poison. He sighed wearily, remembering how she had dropped the bread and even stopped chewing.

He had thought that she would return to her food if he told her why he wouldn't kill her; but his need for immediate gratification undid him. His explanation only half-finished, he made a wry jest about killing her, and then recklessly offered the apple again. Her reaction brought the supper to an abrupt end.

She had brandished a knife at him – and then, she had run from the table of food.

The knife was a minor annoyance, but he was in no humour to have his edacious voyeurism thwarted, and his frustration erupted. His raging appetite, far more intense than a living person could understand, was consuming him. He tried to catch her, to drag her back to the table.

Casting aside all subtler means of persuasion, he had chased her like a starving beast, snarled at her, and taunted her as he pulled the bloody knife from his chest. Then (what else had he expected?), she had run out to the main deck.

He heard her shrieks of terror, but he remained in the cabin, trying to master his irritation. _So, Miss Turner, ye find me not to yer likin'?_ he thought, with grim satisfaction. _Then feast yer eyes on the rest o' the company._

After several moments, he decided that Miss Turner had been taught a proper lesson, and he said to Jack the monkey, "Find her."

He seized a bottle of wine from the table and dropped it into his coat pocket; then Jack's aggressive screech brought his master to the door. He was just in time to catch Miss Turner, who was trying to escape back into the cabin. He grabbed her roughly and forced her to stare at what was left of the _Pearl's_ once proud crew.

"Look!" he said, shaking her. "The moonlight shows us for what we really are. We are not among the living, and so we cannot die, but neither are we dead." He spun her about to face him, trying to explain his torment, and his words were both a threat and a cry of despair.

"For too long I've been parched with thirst and unable to quench it," he declared, wanting her to understand his suffering. "Too long I've been starving to death and haven't died." He released her, and she began slowly backing away from him.

"I feel nothing," he said, his eyes wide with desperation as he followed her. "– not the wind on me face nor the spray of the sea, nor the warmth of a woman's flesh." As he spoke, he reached for her, longing to touch her face, but as he stepped forward, the moon showed Miss Turner a rotted corpse with living eyes that looked upon her. He saw the horror and repulsion on her face as she drew back, and it maddened him.

"You'd best start believing in ghost stories Miss Turner," he said with asperity. "Yer in one!" He snatched the bottle from his coat pocket, uncorked it with his teeth, and poured all the wine down his throat defiantly, as if the violence of his actions would somehow allow him to taste it.

Miss Turner screamed as the drink spilled out through his ribs; then she bolted, running past him into the cabin. Disappointed and furious, he smashed the bottle and slammed the cabin doors shut. Facing the crew, he burst into loud, coarse laughter, but when they joined in, he cut them off. "What are ye looking at? Back to work!" he snarled, before making his way to the quarterdeck.

Pintel approached him, saying something. "Shut it," Barbossa grunted, and Pintel went back to his work without a word.

Barbossa remained on the quarterdeck until sunrise with Jack the monkey perched on his shoulder, and calculated his next course of action. He put aside any thought of winning Miss Turner's sympathies for the moment, intending to take what he wanted as soon as he was able to enjoy it. But he had worked out the way he intended to perform the sacrificial ritual, and he thought it might well impress his captive, and change her opinion of him.

To begin with, when Miss Turner was brought into that great storehouse of gold, she would undoubtedly be dazzled; she would never have dreamt of riches so splendid. And he would hold himself aloof, letting her think she was about to die. He would teach her some humility, he thought, and show her how helpless she was. She would look at him with respect and fear.

Then, at the last moment, he would administer the shallow cut, and surely her relief and gratitude would make her see him in a different light. Later, after he had made sure that she was sufficiently satisfying in his bed, he could offer her the chance to become the bride of a very rich pirate. _That should knock some sense into her,_ he thought.

He glanced towards the morning sky, then down at his hands as he steered the ship. He was feeling more than usually weary; his recent outburst must have tired him, he thought. He handed over the wheel to Bo'sun, and went down to the main cabin.

At first, when he entered the day room, he thought Miss Turner must have retreated to his sleeping quarters. There was no sign of her, and the table was just as it had been when she had leapt up from her chair, except that all the candles had burnt down, and pools of wax had hardened beneath them. Jack the monkey leapt to the floor and scampered to his perch, and Barbossa glanced about the cabin for Miss Turner.

Then his sharp ears picked up a soft, rustling sound. _The gown,_ he thought, and realised that she was under the table, and it was undoubtedly the poor lass' trembling that made the gown rustle. If he had been less weary and dispirited, he would have enjoyed that idea.

He sat in a chair, lounging against one of its arms. "Still hidin'?" he asked wryly, addressing the room in general. "There be no reason for fear: ye won't see our cursed forms in the daylight."

Miss Turner emerged cautiously from her hiding place. Barbossa observed that she was, in fact, not trembling; she was calm and sombre.

"Ye've not slept, have ye?" he asked, and for a moment he was stirred by something akin to compassion; but he hardened his manner at once. _Compassion makes ye weak,_ he advised himself. _Show her who be master here._

"Ye should get some sleep," he said, narrowing his eyes, "although we don't."

Miss Turner glared at him. "Sleep?" she repeated. "Must I be rested and refreshed for the blood-letting?"

"Oh, so ye do have a sense o' humour after all," he replied with a chuckle. He studied her for a moment, then said, "Ye can use me sleepin' quarters. T'is a soft, warm bed – for those that can feel it," he added with a lewd smile.

"I prefer to remain where I am," she answered, although her face looked pale and tired.

"Ye must suit yerself," he shrugged, as the monkey jumped back upon his shoulder. "Ye can stay here in our company – all day - or retire to me sleeping quarters alone. I won't molest ye," he added with a smile, thinking, _not yet_.

He watched with amusement as she weighed both distasteful options. At last, she proceeded to the sleeping quarters and shut the door behind her. Barbossa listened with a smile as he heard her fumbling with the door, looking for a way to lock herself in.

He sat in the day room, lost in thought, and after a while, he noticed that the rucksack belonging to the drowned girl had been disturbed. Probably searched by Miss Turner, he guessed. He picked it up, intending to dispose of it, and then put it back down in the corner.

He suddenly wondered whether the drowned girl, like Miss Turner, had also thought of him with revulsion. Was that why she jumped ship? He had always thought himself handsome and desirable enough to make her forget Sparrow. For an instant, he missed her terribly, and allowed sentiments of regret to steal into his thoughts. Then he hardened his heart and dismissed the foolish notions.

Still weary, he stretched out on the settle, and stared at the panelled walls where the sunlight was reflected in patches that grew brighter and dimmer by turns, as shadows from occasional clouds drifted across the _Pearl_.

Gradually, his restless mind quieted itself. Afterwards, he could not determine whether he had actually slept or whether his thoughts had merely wandered here and there, until he imagined himself standing on a sunny street in Santiago, watching people as they passed by.

He noticed two people on the other side of the street, and recognised Jack Sparrow, who was strolling along with the drowned girl on his other side. As they passed, she peeked around Sparrow, and looked directly into Barbossa's eyes. She smiled at him, and he imagined her saying, "I was close. I saw you."

A feeling of impending danger made him look up and down the street, and though he saw nothing unusual, he was convinced that death was about to overtake her; in fact he knew it was rapidly approaching. _She will be killed, and soon,_ he thought, _but how?_ No one else, including Sparrow, seemed to pay any attention. It came to Barbossa that he was too far away to intervene. But what was it to be? A runaway cart? A deliberate murder?

The girl stole another look at him, and he saw her resigned smile. _Don't worry,_ it said. She knew what awaited her, and whatever it was had begun to happen when he found himself awake on the settle, still staring at the wall. He was sufficiently disturbed by this ending that he closed his eyes briefly and deliberately constructed another one, in which he lunged across the street and either scooped her up or pushed her out of the way of whatever it was.

What could have prompted him to entertain such a fantasy, he wondered. Was it the rucksack in the corner? Or was he thinking of Elizabeth Turner's fears, of her brave acceptance of her own fate?

The paneling in the cabin no longer reflected any sunlight, but it was not yet night. Through the glass panes, he saw a large bank of heavy clouds aft of the _Pearl_ , and the faint flicker of lightning. He was relieved; his instincts must have told him there would be heavy weather that evening, and it had affected his daydreams.

The door to his sleeping quarters opened, and Miss Turner emerged, looking more composed than before, although she did not appear to have slept.

Indeed, Miss Turner had spent a great deal of her time putting together as many clues as she possessed, but she wanted to know more. Will was undeniably involved; that much was clear – but how? She had carefully considered what questions she could ask Barbossa, so as not to give the game away.

She took a few steps towards him, but hesitated, seeming unsure how to begin. Then she lifted her chin and said, "Good afternoon Captain. Would you mind telling me why you believe it is my blood that you need? I didn't steal any gold."

"Aye, t' be sure, ye did not," Barbossa replied, "but yer father did. And since he be . . . unavailable, his child must make the blood sacrifice t' free us all."

 _So it was Will they were looking for,_ she thought. But how much could they know of him, given their conviction that she was William Turner's daughter? Perhaps she could find out more without betraying the secret of Will's existence.

"How did you find me?" she asked, reciting the question carefully, just as she had prepared it.

"The gold called to us, missy," Barbossa informed her. "We heard it the mornin' of the day we attacked the town." He flashed a sly grin. "An' the next thing I knew, the gold was brought t' me by Miss Turner herself, who had sailed from England eight years ago." Then he added proudly, "We found that out after we'd been all the way t' Rotherhithe chasin' ye."

 _Rotherhithe – Will had told her of the years he'd lived there!_ Not realising she was speaking aloud, she murmured, "Near the Three Mariners Stairs."

Barbossa' eyes glinted triumphantly. "Aye. So ye remember Rotherhithe, eh? Yer old home?"

At that moment, a loud, prolonged roll of thunder filled the air. Barbossa stood up. "We've heavy seas ahead of us tonight, but we'll make port tomorrow." He glanced at the table. "Eat whatever else ye want now. I'll order the rest cleared. No sense lettin' the foul weather spill it all on the floor. Waste not, want not," he added.

Elizabeth sank into a chair as Barbossa made ready to go on deck. "I'll be needed at the wheel tonight," he said as he closed the door. "Good evenin', Miss Turner. We be close to the end, now."

 _This means there is no hope for me,_ she thought. Not even a chance to escape during the night, with conditions so stormy. She mused over the possible consequences if she revealed her identity, and all of them seemed to be bad: if the pirates did not believe her, nothing would change – if they did believe her, they would kill her outright and go after Will. _They will stop at nothing,_ she thought.

Of course, they would regret sacrificing her, once they found that her blood was useless. _They will never know what I might have told them,_ she thought. _At least I shall have my revenge when they kill me and the curse is still on them – and I'll have kept Will as safe as I am able._

She resolved to say not a single word that could lead to Will. Protecting him gave her sacrifice meaning, and she vowed to summon the courage to see it through.

Despite the stormy weather and even the cursed pirates, she must have fallen asleep, exhausted, for when she opened her eyes again, it was morning, and the _Pearl_ was anchored in a haze of fog just off Isla de Muerta.

She gazed forlornly out the aft windows, still hoping to see a sail in the distance that would tell her James and her father would soon be there to save her. The shouts and thuds coming from outside the cabin told her that the pirates were emptying the _Pearl's_ holds, and loading her cargo into their boats. This activity went on for so long that she seemed to have been forgotten, but after several hours, the cabin doors opened to reveal four unsmiling men, Koehler, Pintel, Ragetti and Twigg. Their captain had sent all of them to collect her.

"Time to go, poppet," said Pintel, giving her a hard look.

Barbossa watched from the quarterdeck as Miss Turner was escorted up the steps and her hands were bound with ropes. Then he stepped behind her and drew her hair back over her shoulders. He fastened the chain with the medallion securely around her neck, and nodded to his crew.

They helped her down the ladder to the longboat ("Careful, poppet," Pintel admonished as they handed her into the boat) and she tried not to show her disgust at the smell of them and the way they touched her. Barbossa wore a grim, determined look as he stood in the bow of the boat, staring straight ahead with one foot on the gunwale. At last, all the longboats set out for the rocky shore of the unknown island, making for the tall, jagged entrance to what appeared to be a half-submerged cavern.

* * *

Next: The medallion goes missing, the ritual goes awry, and Barbossa negotiates with Jack Sparrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no claim whatsoever to any part of the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. The original characters and original plots are owned by me.


	10. An Island That Cannot Be Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the moment of victory, everything seems to unravel, as the medallion and the mysterious girl disappear, and Barbossa is faced with the return of his old adversary, Jack Sparrow. Worse, it seems that Jack is the only person who knows what the pirates need in order to lift the curse.

The pirate's cave lay at the heart of Isla de Muerta, surrounded by a labyrinth of dark, watery tunnels through which the longboats were slowly rowed in single file. The only light came from lanterns fixed to poles that dangled over each boat's bow. Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly as the boat glided past a skeleton half-buried in sand near the water's edge. Barbossa and the other pirates looked neither left nor right, but peered ahead eagerly as their boats were steered in the direction of a golden glow that was dimly visible before them.

As the boats rounded a last corner, the glow was seen to be shining through a rocky arch that led to the treasure chamber. The boats were brought ashore, and Barbossa jumped down from the bow at once. He strode through the arch without waiting for any of the others and made his way rapidly into the cavern. As he marched forward, he surveyed the scene around him with a deep sense of fulfilment as he took in the magnitude of his achievement.

He remembered his first sight of this very cave, when they had claimed the treasure without understanding the price they would pay. It had been illuminated by soft, filtered beams of sunlight slanting through the sinkholes overhead, and the shadowy air had been cool and damp with little drafts that moved across one's skin. Water dripped from huge stalactites, and meandered lazily in shallow rivulets about the flat stones that made up the cave floor.

There had been nothing in the cave that was not placed there by the hand of Nature – save for the carved stone chest in the very centre of the chamber. A bright shaft of daylight from one of the limestone sinkholes had poured down directly upon the chest, surrounding it with unearthly light.

The chest still stood beneath the sinkhole, but now it rested on the summit of a mountain of gold - a king's ransom ten times over.

Everywhere he looked, Barbossa gazed upon masses of treasure rising in peaks beside the shallow waters, like great golden islands emerging from the sea. Some were dotted with enormous candelabra whose towering branches make them look like silver trees growing on the slopes of glittering hills. Countless chains and necklaces of silver and gold had spilled carelessly down these steep hillsides, and trailed into the water like serpentine rivers streaming off the volcanic peaks of tropical islands.

There were still a dozen or so of Barbossa's crew carrying trunks and baskets, pouring out precious coins and jewels, adding to the golden landscape. Barbossa ignored them, and began to climb toward the chest where the final ritual would take place. With each step, the gold crunched under his boots, almost making him slip once or twice, as the coins slid away like scree down a hill.

When he reached the summit, he walked restlessly to and fro, musing over the plunder, the work of ten years. Ten years of his life, he realised, and he gloried in the thought that his life had been successful. _Acres of gold here,_ he thought. _Who could count it all? A lifetime to collect it, and now a lifetime to spend it._

He smiled to himself as he thought of the shining future that lay before him. _What sublime delights might await me beyond the curse?_ he wondered. His mind was filled with fantastic dreams of wealth, pleasure, power and renown that would be his at last.

Barbossa looked around him at the men assembled below, and felt an intense glow of pride: he had kept them together, he had brought them this far, and now he was about to deliver them from their curse.

"Gentlemen!" he began in a commanding voice, "The time has come! Our salvation is nigh! Our torment is near an end."

Ten years of desperation found voice in their answering cheers, and moved Barbossa to speak a few moments longer, so that all his men might savour the victory that they had won against all odds. He praised their sacrifices and their boldness. He pronounced their punishment unjust, and then he turned to the chest.

"Here it is!" he exclaimed, kicking the lid off. "The cursed treasure of Cortes himself! Every last piece that went astray, we have returned," he declared, and suddenly pointed to Elizabeth. "Save for this!" Rallying his men once more, he regarded Elizabeth with an ominous grin.

"You know the first thing I'm goin' to do after the curse is lifted?" he asked his men. "Eat a whole bushel of apples!" He seized Miss Turner by the back of her neck and forced her to lean over the stone chest. She caught herself with her hands, and remained in place, hovering over the cursed gold.

Barbossa took up Tia Dalma's stone knife, and began to recite the words she had taught him. "Begun by blood…by blood undone." Then he seized the medallion from Miss Turner's neck, placed it in her palm, and made a small cut next to it.

Miss Turner gave a quick gasp, then looked at him in amazement. "That's it?" she asked in disbelief.

"Waste not," he murmured with a friendly smile, thinking of the passionate evening they would have together that very night. But Miss Turner did not look grateful or impressed; instead, she appeared to be both angry and disgusted.

He turned her hand downward so that the bloody medallion, the last measure of atonement, fell into the chest. Then, leaving Miss Turner standing behind the chest, Barbossa moved to a position on the golden mountain where he knew he should be able to feel the draft of air that descended through the sinkhole. It might not be the sea breeze for which he yearned, but it would be the first sign that sensation had returned – that the curse had been lifted.

There was a moment of silence in the cave, as all the pirates stood still, waiting for deliverance, until at last Koehler spoke up. "Did it work?" he demanded impatiently.

Barbossa opened his eyes as a dreadful feeling of doubt crept over him. He had not felt the slightest indication of air moving about, nor temperature, nor the salty dampness of the cavern's atmosphere.

"I don't feel no different," Ragetti complained.

If the curse was still upon them, Barbossa reasoned, then either the heathen gods or Tia Dalma had lied. Anger and panic began to build within him. _Someone_ had cheated him, and someone would pay for it.

"How do we tell?" asked Pintel. In no mood to countenance dullards, Barbossa rolled his eyes, pulled out his pistol, and put a lead ball straight through Pintel's chest.

And of course, Pintel didn't die.

All the pirates began talking at once. Their voices sounded frantic as they argued amongst themselves, but Barbossa was busy inspecting the stone knife. His greatest triumph had been snatched away from him, his victory had crumbled into dust, and he would know the reason why.

The knife's blade bore witness to the blood he had spilled. Both blood and medallion had gone into the chest. A terrible suspicion gnawed at him, then seized him so violently he could barely speak. He rushed to the chest and confronted Miss Turner.

"You, maid!" he said, trying to control his voice. "Your father, what was his name?"

Miss Turner's only answer was a sphinxlike smile.

He seized her and shook her. "Was your father William Turner?" he demanded, his heart pounding harder every second.

She smiled again. "No," she said, delivering the coup de grace.

All at once, he was aware of the triumph in her eyes, and understood that this had been her plan: that his defeat was her victory, and his failure, her greatest success.

She had made a fool of him, he thought, and was nearly incoherent with rage. All the urgency of his situation surfaced, as he saw his last chance slipping through his fingers.

He shook her again, his face twisted with fury. "Where's his child?" he demanded, as her mouth widened into a smile. He snatched the medallion from the chest and thrust it at her. "The child that sailed from England eight years ago, the child in whose veins flows the blood of William Turner. _Where?_ "

Miss Turner looked him in the eye defiantly and, still smiling, closed her lips.

_She knows_ , he thought, _she's known all along._ His temper boiled over, and he lashed out, striking her with the back of his hand, with enough force to knock the medallion out of his grasp. Miss Turner fell over and tumbled down the mountain of gold.

Barbossa saw the medallion glinting as it lay beside the unconscious girl, but the arguing amongst his crew had become an uproar, and he turned to face them. Twigg challenged him at once.

"You brought us here for nothing!" he shouted at Barbossa.

"I won't take questioning, and no second guesses," Barbossa snarled. "Not from the likes of you, Master Twigg."

The assembly erupted in a series of accusations: Barbossa had brought them there in the first place, he had sent Bootstrap to the depths, he was to blame. It was all his fault. And then they drew their weapons on him.

He drew his sword and flourished it. "If any coward here dare challenge me, let him speak!" he declared. He'd be damned if he would let this rabble get the upper hand.

No one would venture a fight with him; while it might not kill them, they would receive a painful, humiliating drubbing, and they knew it. They subsided; not entirely, but enough so that Jack the monkey finally caught his master's attention.

Jack was leaping up and down, pointing anxiously at one of the tunnels. Barbossa swung around instantly to check on Miss Turner, and received a terrible shock.

"The medallion!" he roared. "She's taken it!" He pointed to the tunnel. "Get after her, you feckless pack of ingrates!"

The pirates sprang into action at once, everyone running for the boats, but as Barbossa descended from the mountain of gold, he heard a disturbance amongst the crew coming from the area where they had left the longboats. As he walked through the arch, the pirates parted to let him through their midst.

He glanced from side to side, and suddenly, right in his path stood Jack Sparrow, using an oar to prop himself up, his hat sitting at a ridiculous angle upon his head. _I must be dreaming,_ thought Barbossa. _This is straight out of a nightmare_.

Knowing the joy that Sparrow would derive from seeing him rage out of control, he suppressed his irritation. "How the blazes did you get off that island?" he asked in measured tones, as Sparrow smirked at him. And Sparrow's answer exemplified everything Barbossa hated about him; foolishness, braggadocio, and the cocky belief that no one would ever defeat him.

"When you marooned me on that godforsaken spit of land," Sparrow said, swaying on his heels and playing to the entire assembly of his former crewmen, "You forgot one very important thing, mate." He took one hand off the oar and spread his arms with a smile. "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow," he said softly, as though it was a simple fact which Barbossa was merely too dull to grasp.

Barbossa's smile was almost as chilly as the look in his eyes. "Ah, well, I won't be making that mistake again," he replied in a menacing voice. "Gents, you all remember Captain Jack Sparrow?" He turned away from Sparrow, walking towards the boats. "Kill him," he added, over his shoulder.

But before he could take another step, Sparrow played his trump card. "The girl's blood didn't work, did it?" he called out.

Barbossa paused for an instant, but his mind leapt ahead _. Sparrow has something to sell,_ he realised. _Something he knows I'll pay for._

"Hold your fire!" he ordered. He turned back. and approached Sparrow. _Aye,_ he thought, _there be no doubt of it._ His mouth began to curve into a smile and he nodded to himself. _Ye can read it plain as day on his face._

"You know whose blood we need," he said to Sparrow.

Sparrow smiled, genuinely pleased that his former first mate had succeeded in working an easy puzzle. "I know whose blood ye need," he replied.

"I see," remarked Barbossa. Then he looked at Twigg and Koehler.

"Bind him and take his weapons," he ordered. "Take him aboard and lock him in the brig."

Once aboard the _Pearl_ , Barbossa gave orders to pursue the _Interceptor_ , which was a mere dot on the horizon, and he withdrew to the great cabin to contemplate matters. He wanted to collect his wits before dealing with Sparrow, whose negotiating ability rivaled his own, particularly in a situation such as this, where the stakes could not be higher.

His infatuation with Miss Turner – or, Miss Unknown, he reminded himself – had devolved into a cold, angry wish for revenge. Not only had she deprived him of his chance to lift the curse, she had done it by hoodwinking him in front of his entire crew, and he had played the fool for her, thinking that she would eventually give him the recognition and admiration he so craved. He pictured the laughter in taverns all across the Indies when they told the story of how Barbossa was beaten by a mere girl, being persuaded by his vanity that he could win her. It was intolerable. He drew deep breaths and disciplined his thoughts to focus on lifting the curse. He found comfort in the thought that, since he didn't need the girl, he could dispose of her as soon as he caught up with her.

He opened the cabin door and growled at Koehler, "Bring Sparrow."

When Sparrow entered the great cabin where he had once been captain, Barbossa saw his eyes flick towards the bowl of apples on the table. _Damned Sparrow notices everything,_ he thought, _and now he can use it to goad me._

Waving Sparrow towards the table, he lounged in a chair; but Sparrow prowled about the cabin as they talked. _Ever the actor playing to an audience,_ Barbossa thought with contempt. _A fool who deserved to lose his ship._

"You're lookin' well, Hector," Sparrow began pleasantly. "Bein' cursed suits you – in certain lights, at least." He smiled, and Barbossa pretended to be amused. "Of course," Sparrow added, "I've heard it has its drawbacks." Then he stopped prowling and faced Barbossa with an interested expression that did nothing to conceal his inner mirth.

"So . . . I'm a bit confused," he asked his host. "Is it that you . . . can't get it up? Or that it don't come down?" Barbossa glared at him.

"Never mind," Sparrow added, having had his little joke. "Don't think I'd care for either one. Although, in fact, you're lucky to be cursed."

"Oh?" Barbossa answered, resisting the urge to kill him. "And why is that?"

"Because once you break the curse, I intend to kill you with the same shot you left me with on that island. I've saved it just for you. Bein' sentimental I suppose," Sparrow added with a grin and a nod. "You remember the punishment for mutiny an' all that, eh?"

"What say we attend to business?" Barbossa replied, using every ounce of self-control to stay his temper.

"Oh, very well," Sparrow agreed airily. He paced about, explaining his offer, which involved Barbossa and his crew turning over the _Pearl_ in exchange for the name of the person whose blood would break the curse.

Barbossa listened to the offer. He had considered mentioning Nina at some point, so as to settle the mystery of her fate, but he did not dare venture a question. He knew that Sparrow would guess his true interest immediately, and his negotiating position would suffer.

If Sparrow knew she had drowned, then asking about it would be no more than a pointless digression; if he knew that she lived, he would use this information to exploit Barbossa's vulnerability without mercy. And there was a third possibility: if Sparrow didn't know what had become of her, he might very well ask Barbossa, and the answer would likely be ill-received. Barbossa discarded any idea of probing for answers. He gave Sparrow a guarded smile, and proceeded with the negotiations at hand.

"So you expect to leave me standing on some beach," he said with a wry chuckle, "with nothing but a name and your word it's the one I need and watch you sail away in my ship?"

At this, instead of softening his terms, Sparrow ratcheted them up another notch: the name would be shouted back to shore, not handed over. And when Barbossa cast doubt on the wisdom of trusting Sparrow's word, he got a stinging rebuke in return.

"Of the two of us," Sparrow reminded him, "I am the only one who hasn't committed mutiny, therefore my word is the one we'll be trusting." He studied the apples as though noticing them for the first time, selected one, and finally seated himself at the table. "Although," he conceded with a genial nod, "I suppose I should be thanking you because, in fact, if you hadn't betrayed me and left me to die, I would have an equal share in that curse, same as you."

He took a large bite out of the apple, but he stared at Barbossa, who was finding it nearly impossible to maintain a detached air of amusement as Sparrow added insult to injury.

"Funny ol' world, innit?" Sparrow said, and extended the apple towards Barbossa.

Just then, however, fortune turned in Barbossa's favour. Bo'sun opened the door and announced, "Captain, we're coming up on the _Interceptor_!" Jack the monkey was first out of the door, followed by Barbossa and Sparrow. They rushed up the steps to the quarterdeck, and Sparrow, suddenly eager to compromise, offered to negotiate on behalf of Barbossa.

_Whatever is on that ship,_ Barbossa realised, _he can't afford to have me discover it._ Sensing that the balance of power had shifted, he refused Sparrow's offer, snatched the apple from him, and ordered Bo'sun to lock him in the brig once more.

_It's on that ship, whatever it is,_ he thought, his every instinct suddenly sharp as the point of a knife. _It's within my reach, and by God, I'll have it!_

"Haul on the main brace!" he shouted. "Make ready the guns! And run out the sweeps."

The _Interceptor_ never had a chance. Swift as she was, and even given a head start, she was simply no match for the _Pearl_ , and her crew was no match for Barbossa. Although the _Interceptor_ made for shallower depths where the _Pearl_ could not follow, she was overtaken before she could reach safety; and in truth, Barbossa would have driven the _Pearl_ aground on dry land if it had been necessary. All his murderous anger, all his desperate determination to break the curse, was bent on the capture of the _Interceptor_.

When he saw the _Interceptor's_ stern start to swing wide, he understood at once that she was being clubhauled to put her in position to fire on the _Pearl_ , but Barbossa had always been a fine tactician as well as a fearless, bloodthirsty opponent, and he set the _Pearl_ to meet their challenge without hesitation. He ordered the _Pearl_ brought to port at such close quarters that the _Interceptor_ was almost within a grapnel's reach, and gave the command for the guns to begin pouring broadsides into the _Interceptor's_ starboard side.

As Pintel and Ragetti fired the chain shot that dismasted the _Interceptor_ , Barbossa strode forward calmly into the midst of the battle, heedless of the _Interceptor's_ mast falling like a massive tree almost at his feet. "Blast all to carcasses, men!" he bellowed. "Forward clear to the powder magazine. And the rest of you, bring me the medallion!"

Grapnels were thrown and the _Pearl's_ crew boarded the _Interceptor_ as Barbossa continued to shout orders. Jack the monkey jumped upon the fallen mast, and ran lightly across it. Both sides fought for their lives, but the tide of battle had turned against the _Interceptor_. More and more of their crew were being killed or taken captive and brought aboard the _Pearl_.

At last, Barbossa saw the monkey scampering towards him, holding the medallion and being hotly pursued by his namesake. Barbossa stepped up on the rail and grasped a ratline to keep his balance. His pet sprang upon his shoulder and handed him the medallion.

When Sparrow arrived a second later, he looked up to find Barbossa waiting for him with a vindictive smirk on his face.

"Why, thank ye, Jack," he said, dangling the medallion from his hand.

"You're welcome," Sparrow replied with an unconvincing smile.

"Not you," Barbossa explained, feeling that the day was turning out better than expected. "We named the monkey Jack." He held up the medallion and shouted, "Gents, our hope is restored!"

With Sparrow and the remainder of the _Interceptor's_ crew being trussed up by Pintel and Ragetti, Barbossa turned away, waiting to witness the explosion that would scuttle the _Interceptor_. Revenge had been long in coming, but he intended to pay out all of those who had caused him so much trouble, who had cheated and lied in order to defeat him.

As the _Interceptor's_ powder magazine exploded, sending flames high above her, Barbossa was struck repeatedly on the back by Miss Turner, who had eluded Pintel and was screaming hysterically. _And now for you, missy,_ he thought as he turned to her.

"Welcome back, Miss," he greeted her with sweet venom in his voice. "You took advantage of our hospitality last time. It holds fair now that you return the favour."

He shoved her across the deck, into a group of his crew, who were more than willing to take what pleasure they could by groping Miss Turner, in preparation for more intrusive pastimes. Barbossa grinned, and was about to exhort them to save the gown by removing it from Miss Turner and passing it over to him, when he heard his name called out boldly from behind.

He spun about quickly to find a young man, scarcely more than a lad, standing on a cannon and pointing a pistol at him. Miss Turner gasped.

"Will!" she exclaimed joyfully.

The boy gestured toward Miss Turner, then pointed the pistol at Barbossa once again. "She goes free," he commanded.

Barbossa, who had tired of being threatened by those who were obviously his inferiors, spoke roughly as he stepped towards the young man. "What's in your head, boy?" he said.

"She goes free!" the young man repeated.

Barbossa chuckled inwardly at the inexperienced youth trying to force his hand _. Green as grass,_ he thought. He walked forward so that the barrel of the pistol almost touched him, and said, "You've only got one shot, and we can't die."

He was gratified to see the look of confusion on the lad's face _. Like a whelp that can't find his own tail,_ he thought. But then the boy leapt back to his perch on the rail, and said something that seemed even more illogical.

"You can't," he said. "I can." And with that, he pointed the pistol at his own jaw.

Barbossa squinted; he was fairly quick at recognising faces, and this boy looked suddenly familiar. A vague association stirred in the back of his mind: a ship named the _Enid_ , the call of a medallion that couldn't be found, and a scared child hiding amid the cargo.

He stepped towards the boy. "Who are you?" he demanded, ignoring Sparrow, who was trying to interject a complicated, far-fetched explanation.

"My name is Will Turner," said the boy. "My father was Bootstrap Bill Turner. His blood runs in my veins."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next (not posted yet): Barbossa's journey reaches a conclusion he did not imagine.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean. Original characters and plots are owned by me.


	11. Retribution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbossa's journey comes to an end he never expected, as Jack has his revenge at last.

**Retribution**

Hours after the child of Bootstrap had appeared on the _Pearl_ waving a pistol, Barbossa was pacing slowly about the day room, reviewing his plans. He had not allowed Turner's sudden arrival to unsettle him; he had used his wits to turn it all to his advantage. And now he meant to ensure that there was nothing too rash in his strategy. He wanted no problems of the sort that Bootstrap's departure had created. Barbossa had learned to govern his quick temper since that day, and he recognised that present events were nearing a crisis that required careful thought.

When he recalled Turner's son trying to negotiate with him, his mouth widened into a broad smile. During the actual conversation, of course, he had managed to maintain a serious expression until the accord was reached.

Turner, as simple-minded as his father, had insisted that Elizabeth go free, and the crew not be harmed. Fair enough. That was the point where Barbossa had cut their talk short; after hearing Turner's vague demands, he knew exactly how he intended to deal with each one of them – Sparrow, Turner, and Elizabeth Whoever-she-was.

"Agreed," he had said, showing his teeth in a triumphant grin. _Agreed, Master Turner_ , he thought. _I've got every blasted one of ye just where I want ye._

All of the prisoners remained bound with ropes as they stood on deck, and Turner joined them.

"Sound the ship!" Barbossa had ordered the carpenter, one Mr Crackett, "an' see to the brig first."

Once the brig was repaired, Barbossa had thrown the lot of them into it: Sparrow, the remaining crew, Turner, and the girl. No doubt they believed that the _Pearl_ would set a course for Isla de Muerta, but he had another destination in mind.

Turner would have to be kept in health until the ritual was completed and proved to be successful. However, neither the girl nor Sparrow served any purpose at all and Barbossa reckoned it was time to take revenge on them both. Turner's bargain was worthless, because Sparrow, as "captain", was not part of the crew. As for Elizabeth, well, there were many ways to set a prisoner free.

The _Pearl_ was bound for Rumrunner's Island, the sandy atoll where they had marooned Sparrow before. The idea of returning to the same place appealed to Barbossa: it carried a sense of fitness, of correcting a misstep, and of ending the curse with the same events that began it. And this time, Sparrow would have a companion, because Elizabeth would be "set free", just as the foolish Turner boy had asked, but in a place where she was certain to perish.

Yet . . . something was making him uneasy. After ten years of supernatural suffering, Barbossa found himself wary of uncanny signs. The eerie coincidence of young Turner's emergence from the ocean bothered him. One Turner going into the sea and another coming out of it gave him a peculiar feeling, as if Bootstrap had, in a sense, returned; and that would bode ill for the mutineers. He steadfastly rejected the idea; this was no time to lose his nerve over imagined omens.

He walked about the cabin, listening to the low-pitched hum that came from the medallion, carried safely in his coat pocket. He took it out to gaze at it once more, and noticed something caught in its chain.

It was the drowned girl's hairpin. He untangled it, and was about to drop the pin back into his pocket, when he stopped, startled by a sudden realisation. On his last visit to these waters, he had marooned Sparrow; but something else had happened on that day. He tightened his mouth for a moment at the thought of it: he was sailing to the very place, indeed the very waters, where Nina had thrown herself overboard.

He pictured the island and the seas. "Nina," he said under his breath, as a foolish wish popped into his head: that he could go back in time and stop her. _Ah,_ he thought with relief, _that explains me dreamin' about savin' her_. Still, he felt an odd sense of loss; that possibility was closed to him now.

Similar ruminations occupied him all evening – the influence, he reckoned, of the ship's nearness to the scene of Nina's disappearance. He kept the hairpin in his hand, willing it to summon her spirit to the cabin, which seemed particularly empty somehow, and feeling ridiculous for it. Long after midnight, he recognised signs of drowsiness overtaking him, and he was grateful to retire to his berth where his worries would not follow him.

As he fell asleep, he expected to dream, and was not surprised to find himself and Nina in conversation. They were facing each other, seated on two crates of valuables, alone in the treasure cave. She extended her palms towards him, and he clasped his hands over hers. She leaned towards him and looked into his eyes as if about to confide a secret.

"I am going home," she said, adding, "to be killed" as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

Then she pressed her ghostly fingers to his chest, and he felt a slight pain, as though she were somehow gently reaching into him, past his ribs, and actually touching his heart. "I'm so sorry," she said sadly, her voice echoing strangely in the cave.

"I'm goin' t' break the curse," he said urgently, taking her hands again. "I have the last medallion."

But she seemed not to notice. Instead, she remarked, "You've caught Jack – you mean to kill him."

"And how d' ye know that, m' fine lady?" he asked, taken aback.

"I always know when something happens to Jack," she answered.

"Oh, do ye, now?" he said. He tried to smile as he challenged her with a show of heartiness; but his spirits sank at the mention of Sparrow. Her calmness, her indifference to him, and her bond with Sparrow all tore at his pride, and his emotions felt naked and exposed in this dream. A terrible fear took hold of him that he had allowed himself to fall hopelessly in love with her and was at her mercy.

"Along with Jack, I've caught a pretty lass, as well," he added defiantly, wanting to ease the ache in his heart by hurting the girl in the dream. "Prettier than you."

"She's unlucky for you," she replied, with sincere concern in her voice.

"Is that so, missy?" he asked, pleased to have prompted a reaction.

"The _Pearl_ – she's unlucky for you," Nina explained. She might have added _my dear one_ , so solicitous was her expression.

Disappointed in her answer, he shrugged, "An' what matter is that to ye? I suppose ye want the _Pearl_ fer Sparrow?"

"Perhaps."

"An' what d' ye want fer me? Nothin' good, I'll be bound," he asked tartly.

Nina reached towards him and touched the side of his face with one hand. She leaned close to his ear, and he could feel the tip of her nose, and the movement of her lips as she whispered to him. He thought he heard her murmur, "As for you . . . _I love you_."

It was soft as a sigh, and he was afraid he hadn't heard it. "You're naught but a dream," he said, suddenly feeling as though his heart was breaking.

"Does it matter?" she replied, her hand still caressing his beard; and then, unexpectedly, she kissed him before he could react. "Oh, why didn't you ask me just now?" she asked, mournfully. "We've run out of time, and I wanted you to be sure."

 _Ask ye what?_ he would have asked, but before he could make sense of her words, the girl and the dream quickly faded. Barbossa opened his eyes; it was morning, and the _Pearl_ was anchoring off Rumrunner's Island.

He lay abed, but his mind worked quickly to recall and inspect each moment of the dream. What had he missed? What was he supposed to have asked her? Had she said she loved him, or had he wishfully added that sentence himself as he awakened? And he was still hurt by her mention of Sparrow.

He sighed. He was missing something; of that he was certain. It was becoming increasingly difficult to think, what with Sparrow, the medallion, Turner, and the girl in the red dress, Elizabeth – all of them up to no good, all of them hating him.

He went over his dream once more, and then he noticed it – why had he not asked a question of Nina when she said this? She had said she was going home to be killed.

If she could be killed, then she must be alive.

He allowed that thought to settle in, dismissing the fact that it came from a mere dream. The more he thought of it, the more he began to hope it could be true, and he felt the world around him change. Gradually, he began to convince himself of happy possibilities. Perhaps the gods would forgive him after all, and look kindly on him. Perhaps he could find Nina and claim her, and instead of despising him, she would return his attentions after all.

He looked at the hairpin, still in his hand. "Mortal belongs with mortal," he murmured, remembering Tia Dalma's words. But then he recalled other things that Tia Dalma had said.

He would not see Nina again in this life; that was one thing. And she had also said that his dreams were not real. He exhaled, disappointed. The real Nina feared him, Tia Dalma had explained, so much that she threw herself off the ship. He should be content with his dreams.

Then he realised something else: a living, breathing Nina could never be his friend or lover, for she would damn him forever for what he was about to do to Sparrow – she would curse him with her dying breath.

He set his jaw tightly: he was hell-bent upon his course, and nothing could change it – not a simpleton popping out of the sea, nor a dream woman he could never have.

He left his quarters, and ordered everyone to assemble on the main deck at once. He was determined that Turner should see how his bargain had failed of its purpose, even though all his demands were fulfilled.

As his first order of business, Barbossa forced Elizabeth out on the plank, over the shouted protests and accusations of young Turner. The captain pounced on Turner's arguments like a cat on a long-awaited mouse. "Don't dare impugn me honour, boy," he said, taunting the lad. "I agreed she'd go free, but it was _you_ who failed to specify when or where."

Then, still angry at Elizabeth, he demanded the return of the red gown, to humiliate her further.

"It goes with your black heart," she retorted, and rather than hand it to him, she crumpled it like so many rags and threw it at him.

 _Spirited to the end, I see,_ he thought. Then he turned to his crew. "Ooh, it's still warm," he gloated. There was general laughter, and he was pleased by the look of helpless fury on Turner's face.

Once Elizabeth had been knocked into the sea, it was Sparrow's turn. Sparrow had recognised the island, of course, and was therefore unsurprised at being forced onto the plank. Still, he tried to bargain with his former first mate.

"Last time, you left me a pistol with one shot," he reminded Barbossa, as though it were a condition that was binding upon his adversary.

 _Always tryin' to turn the tables, eh, Jack?_ Barbossa thought. Still, Sparrow had a way of drawing one in with his cagey reasoning. Perhaps he had guessed that his captor intended to replicate the original marooning; in any case, Barbossa found himself agreeing.

The weapons were brought forward in a bundle and handed to Barbossa, and Sparrow tried for more.

"Seeing as there's two of us," he said, "a _gentleman_ …would give us a pair of pistols."

Barbossa grinned at the attempt to play on his social ambitions. "It'll be one pistol as before," he replied in a kindly voice, "and you can be the gentleman and shoot the lady and starve to death yourself." He threw the pistol and sword into the sea, and Sparrow dove off the plank to recover them.

In the back of Barbossa's mind, he could imagine the drowned girl staring at him accusingly, but he shook off his doubts, and turned towards his men.

He nodded at the remaining members of Jack'screw. "Take 'em all back to the brig. Everyone in the starboard cell – except for him" – he pointed at Will Turner – "lock him on the other side."

Then he set a course for Isla de Muerta, and returned to his quarters.

Around sunset, Mr Crackett made his report, which was unremarkable. The _Interceptor's_ cannons had blown several holes in the _Pearl's_ hull, which Crackett was repairing. Bo'sun had organized teams to pump out the water.

Barbossa grunted and dismissed Crackett, but the carpenter had something else on his mind. "I suppose it'll be alright," he ventured. "But we've come upon a bit of fog."

Barbossa threw him a sharp glance: Crackett was generally oblivious to anything short of a hurricane, and something about his cautious tone and hesitant look made Barbossa stride past him to have a look for himself.

When he emerged on the main deck, he found the _Pearl_ blanketed in the thickest fog he had ever seen. He couldn't see more than four feet in front of him. He checked the sheets and found them slack and loose: the _Pearl_ was becalmed. Barbossa found his way to the quarterdeck and located Bo'sun.

"What's the meaning o' this, ye worthless scoundrel?" he demanded. "I left ye makin' way with a fair wind at yer back! By the powers, ye 'll answer fer this!"

Bo'sun looked gravely at his captain. "Something is holding us," he told Barbossa. "Not a shoal or a wreck – something else." He looked towards the west. "When the sun went down, the wind dropped, and I saw fog rise from the water like steam from a cauldron. We could do nothing."

 _T'is the heathen gods,_ Barbossa thought, narrowing his eyes _. They mean to stop us liftin' the curse._ And the idea came to him that perhaps it was their doom to stay just as they were – becalmed on a ghost ship in a fog. But he kept up a brave face to enhearten the crew. "Then heave to an' we'll wait it out," he said impatiently. "The fog 'll lift when the sun rises." And he returned to his quarters.

He closed the doors, turned towards his chart table, and was astonished to see someone seated in his chair. "What are ye doin' here?" he stammered.

"And what mek yuh t'ink I am here?" answered Tia Dalma lightly. But he knew at once that her appearance must be connected in some way with the fog.

"I seem to be delayed in reachin' Isla de Muerta," he said sarcastically, seating himself across from her. "Ye wouldn't happen t' know anything about that now, would ye?"

She shrugged. "Tropical wedder," she suggested.

In no mood for games, Barbossa steadied himself and spoke to her earnestly. "Fer ten years I've been tormented, neither dead nor alive, with no hope but what lies before me now. What the devil be delayin' me?"

"Delay can be good," she answered.

"T'is hard t' see how it be good fer me!" he retorted.

"Me didn't say 'for you'," she said, watching him. "But it might be good for odders."

He brought his fist down on the table. "I'll do anything t' lift this curse," he declared through clenched teeth.

"Dat be de danger, dear mon," Tia Dalma answered softly. "Yuh always be willin' t' do anyt'ing." He stared at her, baffled.

"Me come t' warn yuh," she went on. "Love kyan save yuh – me t'ink yuh know dat now. But yuh anger an' ambition – dat is what truly be hidin' in de fog. Dat is what be yuh undoin'." She rose from her chair and strolled towards the windows. "W'en dawn come, de _Pearl_ gwan be under way again."

He passed his hand across his eyes. He had been tried to the limit of his endurance and more. "Ye still promise t' protect me from death?" he asked.

"Yes," came her soft reply.

But when he opened his eyes, he was alone.

Barbossa spent the remainder of the night trying to decipher her words, and staring at the last medallion as he held it in his hand. _Some things merit anger,_ he thought, justifying himself, nor could he find fault with his ambition. _I only want me life back,_ he thought. _Nothing more._

Just as Tia Dalma had said, the rising sun drove off the fog and a light breeze sprang up. The _Pearl_ arrived at Isla de Muerta shortly after sunset.

Barbossa made haste to carry out the ritual that would set him free. He assembled the crew, and had Koehler and Twigg bring up the Turner boy and guard him. There was no speech this time, no preliminaries to the sacrifice. Barbossa seized the stone knife and held it up.

"Begun by blood…" he pronounced, "by blood un—" but Turner interrupted with a shout.

"Jack!" he cried.

Barbossa looked up, and thought the curse had destroyed his mind. Before him stood Jack Sparrow. "'S not possible," he moaned.

"Not _probable_ ," Sparrow corrected him, and Barbossa felt anger surge through his veins. Furious at his contemptible enemy's refusal to die, he scarcely heard Sparrow's flippant explanation to the Turner boy.

" _Shut up!_ " he snapped, pointing the knife at Sparrow. "Yer next." He had the knife at Turner's neck when Sparrow spoke again.

"You don't want to be doing that, mate," he offered helpfully.

"No, I really think I do," Barbossa answered, wishing it were Sparrow's throat under the knife.

"Your funeral," Sparrow shrugged.

Barbossa tried to suppress his curiosity and failed. He sighed and rolled his eyes. "Why don't I want to be doing it?" he asked, in spite of himself.

And Sparrow explained: the _Dauntless_ had tracked them down and was waiting for them to leave the cave. After ten years of suffering a curse they were finally able to lift, they would be lucky to enjoy an hour of their new life before the Royal Navy cut them down. Barbossa felt the horror of his situation sinking in, as he reckoned his odds of survival.

But as usual, Sparrow had a plan. "Just hear me out, mate," he said reasonably.

If Barbossa's crew attacked the _Dauntless_ while they were immortal, they could take her, and she would be Barbossa's prize: a one hundred gun ship of the line. And then, because he would have two ships, Barbossa could claim the lofty title of Commodore. Barbossa contemplated the idea, and his chin rose as he pictured himself crowned with great power and prestige.

Sparrow, of course, wanted a reward. He asked to captain the _Pearl_ under Barbossa's colours. He even agreed to pay the newly-minted Commodore twenty-five percent of his plunder. _Not that I'll ever ever need it,_ mused Barbossa. _But then, why should he have it?_

"I suppose," he said, drawing Sparrow out, "in exchange, you want me not to kill the whelp."

But Sparrow surprised him.

"By all means," he replied, "kill the whelp. Just not yet. Wait to lift the curse until the opportune moment. For instance…" he added, fiddling with the medallions, "after you've killed Norrington's men. Every… last… one." He tossed the medallions back into the chest, and gave Barbossa a sincere, knowledgeable look.

That, and Turner's indignant protest, convinced Barbossa. He concluded his accord with Sparrow and sent his crew to ambush the _Dauntless_ in a way that even Sparrow had not reckoned on: by crossing the sea bed on foot and climbing the _Dauntless'_ anchor rodes.

He remained behind with Sparrow and young Turner, keeping three of his men to act as guards. Sparrow sauntered about, examining various artifacts, whilst Barbossa sat in silence at the foot of the golden mountain. To all appearances, the two enemies were now allies, but Barbossa was silently preparing his own solution for dealing with Sparrow.

As he watched his former captain stroll about, inspecting punch bowls and coronets, Barbossa was calling to mind his many grudges against Sparrow. He despised the man's arrogance and the shifty deals he engineered. He let his anger brew over the many gibes and personal insults he had endured from Sparrow, who always seemed to be laughing at him.

He decided he would kill Jack as soon as the _Dauntless_ was taken, and before the curse was lifted. Sparrow, the stupid fool, hadn't considered that when the battle ended, he would be unable to save himself. He would be a mortal surrounded by a hostile, undead pirate crew led by his fiercest enemy. Barbossa would run a sword through him, skewering him like a rabbit for roasting.

After killing Sparrow, Barbossa thought, then there would be time to lift the curse and kill Turner. That would leave him with two ships, and a great deal of money. He could call himself Commodore without Jack's help. Best of all, he would be rid of a man who had been a constant annoyance from the moment they first met.

 _Sparrow's accord is as flimsy as Turner's,_ he thought with a smile. _He failed to specify 'how long' I would let him be captain, or even how long I would let him live!_

As he sat smiling and planning Sparrow's demise, it occurred to him that he should take care to disguise his animosity up until the last moment. He watched Sparrow pick up another golden artifact, and then addressed him with feigned admiration.

"I must admit, Jack, I thought I had ye figured," he said in a conciliatory tone. "But it turns out that you're a hard man to predict."

"Me? I'm dishonest," Sparrow replied offhandedly. "And a dishonest man you can always trust to be dishonest. Honestly. It's the honest ones you want to watch out for, because you can never predict when they're going to do something incredibly… stupid." And quick as lightning, he grabbed the sword from an unwary pirate and threw it to Turner.

Stunned, Barbossa watched the double-cross unfold. Then he drew his cutlass and met Sparrow who approached at a run. He backed away as Sparrow attacked, until Sparrow had the effrontery to cut the plumes from his hat. Barbossa glanced up, then angrily gave chase, swinging his cutlass at Sparrow wildly, in large, swooping arcs as they fought their way around the cave.

Hating Sparrow, hating his own inability to outwit Sparrow, Barbossa's features were contorted with rage as the two opponents finally clinched, their faces just inches apart. "Yer off the edge o' the map, mate," he snarled, suddenly thirsting for Sparrow's death. "Here there be monsters." He gave Sparrow a shove and attacked relentlessly, backing his opponent up the side of one of the golden hills. Parrying Sparrow's blade, Barbossa kicked him hard, knocking him down.

He took a step back, and dropped his weapon with a smile. "You can't beat me, Jack," he announced.

But Sparrow was on his feet at once, and ran his sword through Barbossa's chest.

Both men paused, while Barbossa sighed, marveling at Sparrow's stupidity. Gripping the sword with both hands, he jerked the blade out. Then, summoning all his rage, he drove the sword through Sparrow's chest.

Sparrow gurgled, and his shocked look delighted Barbossa. Then he staggered, and suddenly moved into the moonlight that shone through one of the sinkholes. Barbossa's smile vanished as he found himself staring at a skeleton holding one of the medallions.

"I couldn't resist mate," Jack remarked.

When Barbossa grasped the way Sparrow had outsmarted him, he rejoined the fight with far more anger than reason. He was beginning to tire, and was slow to notice Sparrow's intensifying attacks. After several more skirmishes, Sparrow backed him up to the gold mountain just below the chest of medallions.

Suddenly an explosion made Barbossa glance behind him for an instant. It was enough to see Turner and Elizabeth, running to join the fray. Holding Sparrow at his sword's point, he drew his pistol and aimed behind him at the girl. As he turned his head back to see her, a gunshot sounded.

He felt nothing, just a painless jolt as the impact of the shot pushed him backwards, but he remained on his feet. He looked at Sparrow once more, and saw the dark cloud of smoke wafting up from the barrel of Sparrow's pistol.

"Ten years ye carry that pistol, and now ye waste yer shot," he jeered.

But a voice from atop the pile of gold said, "He didn't waste it."

Barbossa turned just in time to see two medallions fall from Turner's bloodied hand into the chest. For a confused instant, Barbossa looked about him, struggling to understand his situation.

Then he looked down at his chest, and his weapons fell from his hands, landing with a loud clatter. He suddenly felt as if one of Jacoby's grenades had exploded in his heart, blasting through his ribs with terrible force. And now the passage of time slowed until it was nearly imperceptible. Great waves of paraesthesia flooded his body, and he realised that he could no longer feel his arms or legs.

His attention was drawn by a feeling of something hot pouring down his chest, and he looked helplessly at the pool of blood spreading across his shirt. "I feel cold," he said. His legs gave out and he collapsed on the ground. _What is happening to me,_ he thought.

As he lay there, incapable of any movement, he could say nothing more. Each breath was now excruciatingly painful and short – he felt as though a great weight was crushing his chest, and he needed air that his lungs could not capture. He slipped into shock, aware that he was losing his vision. He thought there were people moving around him, but he could not tell who they were or what they were doing.

And through all the physical agony, and the squeezing pain in his chest, he fastened on the fact that Tia Dalma had lied to him. She had betrayed her promise. She had not protected him. His life was ending, cling to it as he would. There would be no shining future, no riches, no Nina – only one thing had ever truly awaited him beyond the curse – death.

His thoughts drifted away from the cave and he was surprised to find himself mildly regretting the fate of his crew. He had led them all to ruin; Ragetti, with his humble spirit and Koehler, whose wife would now go on without him, and all the others. Or would they perhaps survive, and he be the only one who died? Barbossa felt himself slipping away, looking back from a great distance.

 _No, it can't be over_ , he thought, as the world fell further away from him.

And then, it was.

* * *

Next (not yet posted): **The Dark Shore -** Tia Dalma's promise hangs in the balance as Barbossa faces a frightening eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean. Original characters and plots are owned by me.


	12. The Dark Shore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbossa confronts a frightening vision of eternity, and Nina embarks on a journey on behalf of Tia Dalma.

**The Dark Shore**

"And if some god should strike me, out on the wine-dark sea,  
I will endure it, owning a heart within inured to suffering.  
For I have suffered much, and laboured much, in war and on the seas:  
add this then to the sum."

– Homer, _The Odyssey_.

Downstairs, Tia Dalma moved about soundlessly, in almost total darkness. An hour remained before midnight, but all her preparations were complete. She sat at her parlour table, and once more tossed the small collection of crab shells, peering at the result. No, there was no other way: success depended upon Nina Bitter fetching back the body and soul of Hector Barbossa before Isla de Muerta disappeared into the sea.

She knew that Nina was waiting upstairs, fearful but determined, memorising every instruction Tia Dalma had given her. At midnight, a ghostly boat would become visible in the swamp, and Nina would be taken aboard by two helpers. Tia Dalma had not said much about the helpers, reckoning that if Nina understood what they truly were, she might be too terrified to fulfil her mission.

The boat would bring her to Isla de Muerta, sailing along the edges of Time and Eternity – another detail unknown to Nina. She was to find Barbossa's corpse and secure it. Then the same boat would carry the two mortals back to the Pantano. Nina had raised questions and made no effort to hide her anxiety and dismay, but in the end, she had been persuaded to go.

Alone in her room, Nina sat staring at the flame of a single candle, absently touching the fine weave of the long ribbon that lay heaped in her lap. Silk threads of green and gold made it glisten softly in the light. She could barely distinguish the strands of her own hair that ran through the warp and weft of the thin cloth. Light as gossamer, it had been presented to her that very evening by Tia Dalma, who had woven it thread by thread over ten years. Tia Dalma had said it was a spancel, but a spancel was a thing like a rope, and this was nothing of the sort.

"Spancel kyan have many uses," Tia Dalma had told her. "Dis be a spancel for binding one t'ing to anodder. Yuh will have need of it. It's time for yuh to fulfil de second t'ing I ask yuh."

"To bring you something you need?" Nina had enquired. Until this evening, those five words had been all she knew about the task.

Tia Dalma had nodded, and then told Nina the shocking truth: that she would be tasked with bringing the dead body of the fearsome Hector Barbossa to Tia Dalma so that he could be recalled to the world of the living.

Nina had sat stunned as Tia Dalma explained that Witty Jack's fatal shot had sundered Barbossa's body and soul. His body lay in the cave, but his shade, as befitted a rogue and mutineer, was now lost, roaming a perilous place called the Dark Shore _._

As Nina recalled their conversation, the same thrill of horror passed through her that she had felt earlier at the mention of this place. Although Tia Dalma had not elaborated, Nina knew of the Dark Shore from Homer's poems. It led to Hades; and not just Hades, but Tartarus. According to Homer, no one ventured there unless they had led an evil life, or were commanded to perform a heroic deed by one of the old gods.

 _What does she take me for?_ thought Nina, her heart hammering in her chest. _I can't go to the Dark Shore. I can't venture beyond the cave._ With an effort, she drove these thoughts away, and considered what she had to do at the cave.

 _I've to find his corpse, and bind it to his soul by encircling it as Tia Dalma explained_. That was the purpose of the spancel, she mused. Though it looked too short by several yards, Tia Dalma had said it had certain _properties_. Nina regarded it uneasily; then she shut her eyes against the candlelight, focusing on the next steps.

Barbossa's body must be removed from the cave as soon as possible because the island itself would soon be taken by the sea. If Barbossa's body sank with the island, Tia Dalma could not bring him back.

Another condition that had beggared belief was that Barbossa's shade must consent to return to the world of the living.

"Why would he not agree?" Nina had asked in amazement.

"W'en de shade reach de Dark Shore, it kyan change," Tia Dalma had answered gently. "Him may nah be de way yuh remember him. De punishment often turn dere wits; dey nah remember dere eart'ly life, or de names of t'ings . . ." She had paused, seen the look on Nina's face, and then asked. "What trouble yuh, dear wan?"

Even as she thought it over now, Nina still had no good answer. "Nothing troubles me," she had replied. "I only . . . somehow, I don't like to think of him that way. I know he deserves it."

"Do yuh?" Tia Dalma had asked.

"Perhaps not," was the hesitant reply. After a moment, she asked, "Why send me?"

"Yuh be de one him gwan follow," had been Tia Dalma's unhelpful answer. "Don' fear Barbossa."

 _Fear of this brigand is mere cowardice,_ Nina scolded herself, twisting her hands together. _I pledged to carry out three tasks for Tia Dalma. I shall keep my promise._

The cry of a night bird interrupted her meditations, and she saw that it was midnight; time to face the ghostly boat and the helpers. She took a deep breath and remembered what she had been told. _The helpers will not harm me, but I must not speak to them for any reason_.

Tia Dalma appeared in the doorway. "Time to go, dear wan," she said. "Yuh nah gwan like de helpers. But don' let Barbossa fear dem, or dey nah take him in de boat."

She led Nina out to the ramshackle little dock, where a black boat was waiting. It was shaped somewhat like a very small gondola, and did not seem to be tied to the dock at all. At each end of the boat stood two silent shadows, which appeared as heavy and immovable as marble columns; yet their exact shapes were as difficult to define as smoke. Every instinct Nina possessed cried out to her to run, but she steadied herself, and stepped into the eerie boat. As she seated herself, Tia Dalma spoke to her from the dock.

"Yuh be de only link between him and de livin' world," she warned. Then she indicated the boat and the helpers. "All else belong to de world below."

As the boat began to glide away from the dock, Nina kept one hand in the pocket where she had put the spancel. Upon seeing the helpers, she had been struck by a dreadful idea of what they might be, but she didn't dare let the notion linger. Gradually, as the boat was drawn along the timeless seas, she sank into a serene, meditative state. No longer in need of rest or sustenance, her thoughts roved aimlessly across the heavens as the boat approached Isla de Muerta.

Time and again, she turned her thoughts back to Barbossa. No matter how much she hardened her heart, she was troubled by the terrible fate that had overtaken her old enemy, and she imagined with horror the unseen world to which he was condemned.

The reality of the Dark Shore would not have consoled her.

The roar of the wind had been the thing that brought Barbossa back to consciousness. It was a steady, turbulent howl that filled the air, and neither lessened nor increased. At first, he had remained on his back with his eyes shut, hoping that it was all some terrible nightmare. How he came there, he didn't know; he couldn't even recall closing his eyes – he was simply there. Then he remembered the duel, the pistol shot that tore into his chest, and the pain – worse than any he had ever endured. Was he suffering delirium? Cautiously, he opened his eyes.

The sky above him was completely filled with heavy grey clouds, although there was no rain or other indication of a coming storm. The clouds were moving, perhaps being driven by the persistent winds whose sound filled his ears, but there was not a trace of any colour in the sky. He staggered to his feet, and began to realise that he was no longer in the world of the living.

He was standing on a dirty grey shore bordering a black ocean. The shore and the waters extended seemingly without end. He turned around to see a sharply angled, rough landscape of jagged grey rocks behind him; nowhere was there a single trace of vegetation. There was no colour in this alien world; only grey and black, as far as the eye could see.

The sound of the wind was incessant, and it was the only sound he heard. He was alone; perhaps he would be alone for all eternity. He groaned at the thought of it and looked about him desperately, but there was no one to be seen.

Ha stared out over the water, and eventually discerned a shore on the other side. So this was not an ocean, but a river, he thought, and one whose width spanned an immense distance. He continued to stare, until he noticed something that sent a tremor of fear through his very bones.

There was a black dot on the black water, which he was somehow able to distinguish, and he eventually determined that it was a very large, wide boat. It was steered by a single figure that his intuition told him was a man the size of a giant. The figure, or silhouette, was completely black, except for the eyes, which were the colour of flames.

Barbossa turned away quickly, and gathered his nerve for another look. There was no doubt about what he had seen, and no doubt about what was happening. Although the boat did not seem to be getting any closer, he knew that it was. It was approaching the shore, and when it arrived, it would ferry him to Tartarus, to hell.

Without pausing to think, he turned and began striding rapidly along the shore, desperately hoping to avoid the fateful encounter. As he made his way along, he was still aware of exactly where the boat was, even though he was not looking at it.

He walked quickly for some distance, perhaps half a mile, before he turned once more to survey the river. The ferry was still there, and in the same position. It was as if he had not walked at all. He looked around him at the landscape; it appeared to be the same as before. He fought off the panic that threatened to grip him.

There was something about this place that made him feel slightly off-balance, both mentally and physically. His mind was not working the way it should, and he was having difficultly concentrating on his situation. He glanced ahead in the direction he had been walking, and saw a flickering, black and white image that turned to stare back at him before vanishing like summer lightning.

He had just time to recognise Tabor Stokes, the goldsmith he had killed in St Thomas. Barbossa was not afraid of phantoms, but he began to consider that there might be many whose accusations would condemn him: the merchant and his wife from the Lorena, the Spanish grandee, and so many more. What could he say in his own defence? What had he ever done that would be a counterweight to his vilest deeds? He began walking again.

As he racked his brain to think of even one act of virtue, he was alarmed to find that he could not even recall portions of his life. Then he was jolted by the appearance of a group of phantoms in his path, gazing in the direction of the river. They turned as one to stare at him, and he saw that they were the customs men, led by the one he had thrown to the sharks. The moment he recognised them, they were gone.

He hurried further along the shore, hoping to avoid meeting more victims. And although no more shades appeared, he began to feel the pursuit of vengeful forces capable of inflicting unspeakable punishment. What were they called in the stories from the ancient world? He thought for a moment and then he knew: they were the Furies, the powers that drove the souls of the damned to madness. He looked around apprehensively, seeking some shelter where he could hide himself, but there was none.

No escape, no retreat, no final court of appeal, he thought. He looked far out upon the river and saw that the boat was still there. It still seemed to be many miles away, but Barbossa knew that it was relentlessly closing the distance; that the ferryman with the eyes of fire was coming to collect him. Then, as he continued to stare at the boat, transfixed, he saw a huge pair of wings begin to unfold slowly from the shoulders of the ferryman, black and webbed, like those of a bat.

"No!" he cried out, and sank down on his knees. His words were swallowed up by the noise of the wind. In despair, he covered his face with his hands, unable to plead for himself or even bear the thought of what was about to happen. But just at that moment, another sound came to his ears, one that he heard even through the deafening roar of the winds.

He listened, and thought he could make out the sounds of distant sobbing.

The moment she had reached Isla de Muerta, Nina had jumped from the boat and followed the winding passage to the chamber where Barbossa's body lay. When she saw his face in the light of her lantern, her own reaction caught her by surprise. She gazed at her defeated enemy, deprived of life, cursed by the gods, abandoned by all who knew him; and all of her ill-will died away.

The gentleness of his features in death and the pathos of the scene softened her resolve and opened her heart. An overwhelming sadness washed over her, and her eyes filled with tears. She dropped down beside his body and began to cry. "I'm so sorry," she said, trying to wipe away her tears; but the next moment, she reached down impulsively and embraced him, repeating, "I'm so sorry for you," as her tears flowed.

In that moment, even as she remained in the cave, she was also aware of him on the Dark Shore, and her spirit ran to his side.

Barbossa had looked about him to see who was crying, and he saw a girl hurrying towards him along the shore. She looked insubstantial and phantom-like, her hair and clothes tossed and blowing about as she ran. There were tears on her face and she held something like a light rope or heavy ribbon in her hands. She was calling out to him through her tears.

"Mr Barbossa!" she said, then corrected herself. " _Captain_ Barbossa . . . I've come here to bring you home."

"I have no home – I have no name," he insisted, desperation straining his voice. "Don't ye see that I be dead?"

The phantom girl hesitated for a few seconds, then dropped to her knees and threw her arms about him. She held him for a moment and pressed her cheek against his, trying to reassure him. "I won't let you go," she whispered gently.

 _This is someone I knew,_ he thought, _a friend come to help me._ A strange sense of calm enveloped Barbossa, and he listened as the apparition spoke to him.

"The spancel will bring you back to your body," she explained, drawing the heavy ribbon through her fingers. "Then I shall take you back to the world of the living. Tia Dalma is waiting for you."

Before he could ask her name, the girl placed the midpoint of the spancel on the crown of his head. The touch of it set the world spinning about him, and he closed his eyes, feeling as though he was falling, or had fallen, and was lying upon the shore.

The strange girl ran the ends of the spancel down through each sleeve of his waistcoat, wrapping the fine weave around his hands. Then she stretched the remaining fabric down to his boots. As she drew the uncanny binding along his sides, he felt fragments of himself being pulled together from a great distance. He was still in terrible fear of the ferry, and wished to open his eyes, but he found that this was now impossible. She tied the ends of the spancel together so that it made an unbroken circle around him.

He had hoped to escape the Dark Shore as soon as the spancel was in place, but now his rescuer seemed to be rummaging around him, darting back and forth as she piled several things upon his chest. He couldn't feel what sorts of things they were, but his alarm increased as he thought of the ferryboat, and he was unable to speak. _Hurry!_ he wanted to tell her, _the boat is coming!_

In the treasure cave, Nina finished tallying the items she had gathered and placed on Barbossa's chest: his hat, the cut plumes from it, his weapons, and the last thing she had picked up - the apple that had rolled from his hand as he died. Nothing that belonged to Barbossa could be left in the cave. As she placed the apple upon his chest, something took place outside the cavern that neither she nor Barbossa could see: a pinpoint of green light was visible for a moment on the horizon.

Satisfied that she had collected everything, she began to tug him slowly by his shoulders until she managed to pull him into the water.

Barbossa knew he was floating, and caught fragmented impressions of a torch-lit cave. He was being moved by his strange friend, steered along watery tunnels, until at last he glimpsed a starry night sky, and could recognise a few constellations.

With difficulty, the girl hauled him partially out of the water and onto a sandy beach, but he was clearly too heavy for her, and he heard her panting as she stopped trying to move him. He wondered what would happen next. Then, although he could not move his eyes, he sensed a strange vessel waiting nearby. He could see it in his mind; black as night, with a ghostly light shining from its single lantern. Between the place where he lay and the strange boat stood two presences that filled him with an acute foreboding.

The figures stood motionless, like dark pillars, and though they might have had the general shape of men, they were not and never had been human. Out of their faces, or the place where they might have had faces, came a cold wind that echoed with the sounds he had heard on the Dark Shore. They did not move, but he was consumed with fear.

Nina looked toward the helpers, and guessed what must be preventing them from approaching. She cast about for a way to soothe Barbossa's spirit, knowing in her heart that he probably had good reason to fear the helpers. As she considered what to do, she heard a low, prolonged rumbling and felt a strong vibration under her feet that made her struggle to keep her balance. Isla de Muerta was about to begin its descent to the depths of the sea.

She sat next to Barbossa and peered into his sightless blue eyes as she said, "I'll see that no harm comes to you." Then she took his hands and leaned close to his ear.

"There's nothing to fear," he heard her say, "absolutely nothing." And in the back of his mind, a distant memory stirred at her words. She was someone he trusted, and should recognise. He gazed at her face, and accepted that she would protect him.

The two helpers advanced, and lifted his lifeless figure from the water. The girl kept her hand on his chest as they carried him to the strange boat, removing it only when she had to climb aboard. Then the two figures hoisted him up and laid his head upon a soft pillow. After a moment, he understood that he was lying on the girl's lap, her outstretched legs supporting his shoulders and torso.

He felt the boat's hull grind over the sand, as the dark figures quickly pushed it out to sea. They leapt into the bow and stern, and the boat began to move through the water with a smooth motion unlike any vessel Barbossa had ever sailed on.

Then he was aware that the girl's fingers lightly brushed his eyelids closed, and her hand reached under the spancel to rest upon his right shoulder. He would be safe because she had bound him to herself - to the only bit of the living world aboard that phantom craft.

As he began to slip into a dreamlike trance, she smoothed his hair with her free hand, and touched his collarbone in what was almost a caress. Then she spoke, and he could not recall ever hearing sweeter words than these.

"You're going home," she murmured.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next (not posted yet): Chapter 13 - Home by Another Way. Tia Dalma redeems her promise to Barbossa.


	13. Home by Another Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tia Dalma redeems her promise; Barbossa finds his way back to the world of the living, and discovers where he heart has always been.

 

**Home by Another Way**

"I wrote your name in my heart, and forever it will remain."  
\- Rumi

He was in a boat, sailing gently over seas as smooth as glass. Only a mariner of Barbossa's experience could have even detected the motion beneath him, much less understood its meaning. Barbossa was aware of the eerie vessel's movement through some means that transcended the senses, but he could not measure time at all. How long had he been journeying thus, he wondered.

As the Dark Shore receded and the world of the living drew closer, his memory played tricks on him: memories of his life, once forgotten, began to surface slowly, one piece at a time, but things that had been clear on the Dark Shore were becoming harder to recall.

He still remembered the familiar little phantom running towards him, and the feeling of being pulled back together; of becoming whole once more as she had bound him with the ribbon she called a spancel. The girl and the two fearsome ghosts had taken him from the Dark Shore, snatched him away before the terrible ferryman could drag him to hell.

But these recollections stirred up new and anxious questions. If body and soul were together again, why could he not force his muscles, his voice, or even his eyelids to obey him? Was he, somehow, still not part of the living world?

He was certain that the boat and the spirits that guided it were connected with the world below: each time they entered his thoughts, they brought faint echoes of the winds that had howled along the grey shore. The world below had claimed him, and he was now aboard a craft that belonged to that same world. Why would mariners such as these take him back to the living world and release him?

He reviewed what he remembered of his rescue, and recalled one significant detail: someone (the wraith he had seen on the Dark Shore?) had slipped a hand between his shoulder and the spancel. His flesh was immune to sensation, so he did not feel the slight weight of the girl's hands on his shoulders; but as he mused over his situation, he believed he had the answer.

She was a living person. She, and anything bound to her by the spancel, must return to the living world. If he were not bound to her, the two dark spirits could attack him, and he would never return to the world above. Now he understood the source of the comforting presence that had accompanied him on the voyage, staving off his fear and acting as a restraint on the shadowy others.

As the silent journey went on, he searched his mind for the name by which he had been known among the living. He recognised that, whoever he was, he had loved the sea, and it was home to him. He embraced this knowledge, and then was elated by a vital discovery.

_T'was a pirate's life that I led,_ he told himself.

He could picture himself standing on a deck; he was leading an attack, his sword at the ready. He had a ring that bore the likeness of a roaring lion, and he wore a hat with plumes like a Cavalier's . . . and then he found his name.

_I be Hector Barbossa_ , he thought exultantly, _Pirate Lord of the Caspian Sea!_

He cast about for other clues to his life, and suddenly one captured his attention and brought it into sharp focus.

_I had a ship._

He tried to recall the ships he had captained, one after another. Then he called to mind his last command. _What became of me ship?_ he wondered. _What became of the Black Pearl?_ He pictured her tattered sails, pierced by the moonlight, and had another revelation.

_Under a spell I was - nay, a curse!_ He remembered now; the curse that had taken away all sensation and condemned him to exist forever as a miserable, starving creature neither dead nor alive.

But what had happened? Had he ever lifted the curse? He was not breathing or moving, and he could feel nothing whatsoever. Most ominous of all, he was now on a voyage that seemed to have no end.

He began to fear that this ghostly journey might be part of the curse, or a cruel deception. He might still be trapped in the world below. But if the curse had left him unable to die, then how had he got to the Dark Shore in the first place?

After mulling this question for some time, he recalled a swordfight that somehow involved the _Black Pearl_.

_We were locked in battle – but who was I fightin'?_ A face began to emerge from the shadows of his memory, and he recognised it. Had he been able to move his jaw, Barbossa would have ground his teeth in vexation.

_Jack Sparrow,_ he thought, fuming. _And now,_ _Sparrow has me ship, devil strike him. . . ._

There had been three against him, he remembered, and the fight had ended with a pistol shot. _But what about me?_ he asked himself. _What happened to me?_ No sooner had he framed the question, than the answer came with chilling certainty.

_Sparrow shot me through the heart._ Sparrow had planned it all; he, not Barbossa, had lifted the curse at just the right moment, and had killed his adversary.

_Sparrow shot me. That be the reason I died._

These mental efforts had sapped his concentration, and he could no longer think. Like a weary swimmer defeated by a powerful current, he surrendered his will, and found himself entering a strange state of consciousness. Though his eyes remained shut, he began to see the boat and its passengers from a vantage point slightly above and to the right of it.

He saw a man of many years, whose face was scarred and ravaged, lying flat in the boat (which looked very like a gondola, now that he could see it). The man lay as still as a statue, with eyes closed and skin deathly pale. A green headscarf was bound about his head, and there was an extravagant red blossom of blood over his heart. A narrow green ribbon that glinted with gold ran all the way round his silhouette. Barbossa saw that his own hat and weapons were piled upon the man's body, and gradually came to understand that he was looking at himself.

His head was resting in the lap of the girl who had been crying; in the gondola, she looked very familiar and less wraith-like. He watched as her fingers lightly traced his brow, his face, and the scar on his cheek. All her attention was focused upon him; she smoothed his hair and whiskers, and touched his jaw as if caressing him. She was the one whose hand was bound to him through the spancel, and he felt a great surge of affection for the strange girl.

He looked at each of the tall, smoky figures, and had a strong impression that the one standing in the bow had the features of a woman and carried a lantern. _The Handmaiden_ , he thought with dread, not knowing whence the words came.

He looked at the second figure, and glimpsed the face of a ferocious hound or wolf. The hound-faced being began to shift its gaze towards him, and Barbossa quickly looked away.

He turned his attention back to the girl, and saw her drape her arm across his chest (how could she have sensed his alarm?) and try to soothe him as if he were a fretful child that could not sleep. He could almost imagine that she might be humming a lullaby for his benefit. If she was, the lullaby proved as effective as any magic potion; Barbossa's vision faded and he fell into something like a light sleep.

Once or twice, he thought the girl murmured something; at other times, he was sure he had changed his position and lay on his side, his arms wrapped around her. But each time, the fleeting vision would pass, and he would find his situation unchanged. Gradually, these impressions dimmed, and he slept without dreaming for the rest of the long voyage.

He awakened with the undeniable certainty that the gondola had ceased moving. Then he heard the girl speak to him.

"Be easy, dear," she said. "Now you're safe." Then she must have taken her hand away from his shoulder.

Instantly, his heart cried out against this. _Not again,_ _don't leave again._ And though he ached to reach out and clasp her, he was also mystified. _Who can ye be, that I incline to ye so much?_ he wondered _. Why do I think ye left me before?_

Then he found the last pieces of the puzzle that had been his life.

There had been a mutiny. He had fostered it, inciting the crew, and he had led it. He had seized the _Pearl_ from Jack Sparrow and declared himself her captain. And this girl that had sheltered him in her arms and fetched him back from hell, this girl was Nina, Sparrow's friend and perhaps more, the one he had confronted before forcing Sparrow overboard. He remembered robbing her and locking her in her cabin, but the reason for his actions eluded him.

When he had returned shortly thereafter, intending to claim her as he had claimed the ship, the cabin door was open and a hairpin had been jammed into the lock. They had searched the ship; on the gun deck they found a rope tied to one of the cannons. The other end had been fed through the gun port. Beneath the cannon was a pair of boots. She had escaped him and gone into the sea, and for ten years he had been preoccupied with the question of her fate.

She had vanished from the _Pearl_ , but she had always been present in his heart. He had nursed a secret yearning for her all that time, even when he could do no more than keep the hairpin she had used to gain her freedom.

Convinced he would never see her again, he had still sought her in dreams. She had been the nymph in the sea of flowers – an ocean of love, he now realised. Other dreams came back to him: how her hand had tugged at his pigtail, all the sensations of her head resting on his shoulder, her kiss, their mutual affection. And at last, he admitted to himself that he loved her.

What was he to make of her mysterious return? For it was certainly not a dream that had brought him back from the Dark Shore. Nina, the girl who despised him, had shed tears of sorrow over his death, cradled him in her arms and cared for him. It was her hand that had linked him to the world of the living during that perilous journey.

_Be easy, dear. Now you're safe,_ she had said before she vanished again. He thought it would be worth any price to be able to open his eyes and follow her. But he seemed to be floating in empty darkness, and his senses could tell him nothing. _Is it the world of the living that surrounds me now?_ he wondered. _Where are the two dark powers?_ _Be there danger at hand?_

Then it seemed to him that Tia Dalma's voice echoed in his mind. She was somewhere in the distance, and she was speaking to someone. He heard her say "Don' look so sad," but could not catch the rest.

Tia Dalma's next words were for him. "Now me gwan heal yuh wound, dear," she told him. But was he even alive? Was everything an illusion brought about by the curse?

She began a low chant, in a language he did not know. Like a sleeper awakening, he began to sense his surroundings. He was in a room, but more than that he could not tell. He could not awake completely, or open his eyes, and movement was impossible. It was as though the thin green ribbon that still outlined his silhouette had wrapped him in a thousand invisible threads, and they bound every part of him like a net of steel.

Then Tia Dalma spoke to him, sounding close at hand. "Me called yuh back from de weird an' haunted shore," she told him. "But yuh gwan need time before me put yuh t' work, dear."

He noticed that sensation was returning to him. He was aware of simple things, like the weight of his body lying flat – but the strongest sensation was also the most alarming. There was a hole in his chest that felt very cold, as if there was an empty crater behind his ribs. He tried to tell Tia Dalma, but he remained mute and immobile. _Perhaps I still be dead, but trapped in me body,_ he speculated fearfully.

The next thing he felt was a small cloth, heavily scented with some strange herbs, placed over his eyes and forehead by Tia Dalma's hand. He heard the rustle of her petticoats as she left him, but in a few moments she returned. This time he thought there was someone with her.

She began her chant once more, softly, almost inaudibly. As she continued, the cold, empty feeling in his chest gradually contracted, until he only felt it at a single point – the place where the ball had entered his body. A few moments more, and he could no longer feel the open wound. Tia Dalma ceased her chant, and he knew she was waiting for him to begin breathing.

His first breath was that of a diver surfacing after nearly drowning. He drew in air through his nose and mouth with a noisy, rattling gasp in his throat, breathing so deeply that he thought he might inhale all the air on earth at once. His ribs ached with the effort and he thought his chest might burst. Then he exhaled just as violently, and lay motionless. He did this once or twice more, until his muscles took over the work, and he could relax as his chest rose and fell peacefully.

There was whispering nearby, and then he thought he was alone again; but no – there was someone yet in the silent room, and it was not Tia Dalma.

After a pause of several moments, he felt the collar of his shirt being carefully adjusted, followed by the touch of two small, warm fingers at the very spot where Sparrow's bullet had pierced his chest. The fingers were removed, and someone - the girl? – laid her ear against his chest.

Immediately, he was alarmed. _Me heart must not be beatin',_ he thought. _T'is too late. They can't bring me back._ And yet his pounding pulse and tightening chest were evidence to the contrary.

He made a tremendous effort to take the cloth from his eyes, but his body would not obey him. He groaned, desperate now, trying to speak. The watcher by his side loosened the spancel and took his hands, trying to warm them. Finally he managed a few words.

"Am I livin' or dead?" he asked, his tongue feeling like a clump of wool in his mouth. There was no answer, but she – he was certain it was a woman – continued to hold his hands.

"Tell me," he begged. "Where be this place?"

He grew more agitated, trying to form the words with his dry mouth and clumsy tongue. "Who are ye?" Then, fighting down a wave of terror, he added, "Is the curse still bindin' me?"

At this, his hands were released, and his unseen companion began to lean over him, placing a reassuring hand upon his shoulder.

Making a supreme effort, he grasped at her with both hands, and managed to draw her down upon his chest, despite her resistance and the feebleness of his grip.

He felt her body tremble and her arms grow tense. Her long, heavy hair tumbled loose, the ends lying in serpentine waves across his skin. _Are ye who I think ye are_ , he wondered, tightening his grip as best he could.

He moved his hands over the nape of her neck, and touched the fine strands of the hair that he knew from his dreams, from Tia Dalma's loom; and then he was sure. _T'is you,_ he thought, and his throat grew tight with longing for her _. Don't leave me,_ he silently entreated.

The girl did not pull away. Gradually she grew calm, and remained awkwardly in his embrace. She tolerated her capture, he told himself. She would not leave him.

It seemed to take forever for him to retrieve the hairpin from his coat pocket. His unsteady hand had trouble with the simplest movements, and every slight motion of his arm required all his strength and concentration. But finally, he drew out the hairpin, and felt her take it from his hand.

Exhausted, he used his remaining strength to speak, wanting to tell her everything. _Can't ye see what I'd give t' feel ye in me arms?_ he thought. But when he spoke, the words were not what he intended.

"I know ye, little bird," he murmured, hoping she could hear him and understand. "Ye opened yer cage and flew away."

There was a long silence. Then, in a voice so quiet that he had to strain his ears to hear her, she said, "For all those years . . ."

Hesitantly, she took his hand. "How can this be?" she murmured under her breath.

He was suddenly conscious of himself as an older man, ravaged by hard living, his muscles ropey and his hair thinning. Why would she choose him over Sparrow? _I know I have a past,_ he told her in his mind, _but I've saved the rest o' me life fer you._ As he fell into a deeper sleep, she was still holding his hand.

He did not sleep for long; he awoke in a groggy haze to find that the spancel was gone. Tia Dalma must have taken it away, since it was no longer needed. He tried to move, but found that the weight and weariness of his own mortal form made that next to impossible. He felt drunker than he had ever been, and noticed that the air was filled with the scent of burning herbs, doubtless placed there by Tia Dalma to keep him in this state. Then he heard the girl's light footstep nearby, and knew she had returned to stand at his side.

He lay still in the dim room, his eyes almost closed, trying not to alarm her.

Then he thought, he believed, and he hoped with all his heart, that he saw her touch her finger first to her own lips and then to his. She, not the Nina he had dreamed, but the living person, had given him a kiss. She drew her hand away from his face and lightly down his arm. The moment she reached his hand, he trapped her fingers and held them.

Rather than pull her fingers away, she leaned over him, folding her arms around his shoulders. He felt her kiss his jaw, and then she simply laid her head against his.

Embarrassed by the feebleness of his body, he nonetheless managed to turn his face slightly towards her. "Kiss me again," he murmured, praying that she would oblige him. _Don't think, don't question; please, just . . ._

She moved slightly, so that they were face-to-face, and then she gave him a slow kiss on his lower lip, and continued kissing his mouth. Her fingers curled lightly, affectionately, around the pigtail at the back of his neck, and he put his arms around her in a weak embrace.

"Ye brought me back," he told her in a faltering whisper between kisses. "When I've got me strength back, I want ye to bring back the rest of me." She stopped kissing him, and he opened his eyes, afraid he had said too much. But as he gazed into her eyes, he saw everything he had ever wanted –  tenderness, passion, loyalty – it was all there, and it was all for him.

_It can't be a dream this time, can it?_ he thought. He coaxed her with more kisses, and drew her onto the bed. He still remembered the field of flowers, but he found that the caresses they shared for the next half hour were far sweeter, filling the empty space in his heart with unexpected joy.

"Stay here with me 'til I'm sleepin', sweetheart," he said. She drew him onto her breast and kissed the top of his head.

Much later, the creak of a floorboard and the rustle of Tia Dalma's skirts woke him, and he found himself alone once more. As the obeah priestess approached, he said the only thing he could think of – the one thought that predominated all others. "She loves me. I can tell she does."

But Tia Dalma laughed. "De spancel bound her to yuh, dear. She forgot why she fears yuh, she see yuh differently for a time." She supported his head so that he could drink from a cup of some strange potion she had prepared.

He was dismayed enough to argue the point. "Are ye tellin' me that everything – everything – that just happened was no more 'n a trick?" As he spoke, he realised that the potion was making it difficult to stay awake.

"Nah, dear," she assured him. "De spancel put nothin' in yuh hearts dat was not dere before. Spancel just opened yer eyes an' let yuh bot' see it. But when me wake yuh later on, it all gwan seem like a dream." He began to ask if Nina would think it only a dream, but Tia Dalma anticipated him.

"For her, too," she added with a nod towards her parlour. "By daybreak, all her be t'inking 'bout is what yuh did t' Witty Jack, an' t' Bootstrap, an' what yuh might do to her. Her gwan feel just de way she did before."

"I 'll make her change her mind," he declared.

"I t'ink dat be up to her," replied Tia Dalma with a smirk.

Reluctant to show any weakness in matters of the heart, he resorted to bluster. "Nay, t'is up to me," he insisted, "and I'll not have her floutin' me authority." Then he added sternly, "This time she'll be respectful."

"Den start by being respectful to her," Tia Dalma snapped. "Yuh t'ink yuh be de only mortal under me protection?"

She prodded his shoulder a bit too firmly, just above the place where the wound had been, and he groaned at the unexpected pain. "Hmmm. Well, w'en yuh wake next time," she offered, "if her not too scared of yuh, maybe me send her t' knead yuh shoulder so it feel better."

"Arrr," he growled. "Only if she be naked," he added with a leer.

Tia Dalma laughed. "Same old Barbossa," she said, shaking her head. "Me wonder if de poor t'ing know what be waitin' for her."

He chuckled to himself as she left the room. Still, one thing could not be denied, and it made him smile with secret happiness. At the end of his long journey, she had been waiting for him: Nina, the girl who had not drowned after all, whose kiss still lingered in his mind. _We've been meant for each other all along,_ he thought.

As he fell back into his enchanted sleep, he made a silent promise. _This time, I know what I want,_ he imagined telling her. _This time, I'll win ye like a proper gent._ _Ye'll be me lady and I'll love ye better than any other, and we'll not be parted, ever again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I want to thank my readers wholeheartedly for their encouragement, comments and reviews. For further reading, this story is continued in Barbossa and the King's Messenger, which is written from Nina's point-of-view. My future plans include a sequel to the story, and when I post the first chapter, I will post a notice on my profile page. Feel free to PM me if you have any questions, and once again, thank you so much for your support!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean. Original characters and plots are owned by me.


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